25      WALTER  H-.BAKERfir  CO-    ,§ 
^  BOSTON  •••*•  "L 


GIFT  OF 


Ten  Boys'  Farces 

With  an  Introduction  on 

Impromptu  Dramatics 


By 
EUSTACE  M.  PEIXOTTO 


Notice 

These  plays  are  published  for  the  free  use  of  amateur  players 
and  organizations  only.  Professional  actors  or  companies  pro- 
ducing them  in  any  form  or  under  any  title,  without  the  permis- 
sion of  the  author,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the  pub- 
lishers, will  be  prosecuted  to  the  full  extent  of  the  law. 


BOSTON 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO. 

1916 


Ten  Boys'  Farces 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION — IMPROMPTU  DRAMATICS     - 
Origin 

Effects  on  the  Boys 
Psychologic  Fitness 
Possibilities  of  Impromptu  Drama 
The  Part  of  the  Adult 
Plot  Sources 
Scenery  and  Properties 

DlNG-A-LlNG  ...... 

THE  LAST  REHEARSAL 

ROSIE,  THE  GIRL  FROM  PARIS      - 

THE  TEACHER'S  PET      ..... 

LOST  BUT  FOUND 

POLITICAL  PROMISES 

WHEN  THE  CAT  is  AWAY      .... 
THE  EVIL  THAT  MEN  Do  LIVES  AFTER  THEM 
CHIPS  OFF  THE  OLD  BLOCK  - 
THE  TRAMP  BARBERS , 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  EUSTACE  M.  PEIXOTTO 
As  author  and  proprietor 


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All  rights  reserved,  including  moving  picture  rights 


Impromptu  Dramatics 


Impromptu  Dramatics 


ORIGIN 

The  farces  that  follow  in  this  little  book  are  no  more  by  me 
than  is  the  Iliad  by  Homer,  if  we  are  to  believe  modern  critics 
of  ancient  classics.  They  have  grown  up  in  much  the  same 
way  that  the  Iliad  grew,  at  first  spoken  many  times  until  there 
came  to  be  a  set  way  of  speaking  them,  and  then  written  down. 
Fortunately,  their  origin  is  not  as  remote  as  the  days  of  Homer, 
and  we  can  trace  it  rather  directly,  although  to  acknowledge 
their  complete  authorship  would  involve  the  inclusion  of  so 
many  names  that  this  book  would  be  mainly  title-pages. 

These  farces  are  for  boys,  and  they  are  largely  by  boys. 
They  represent  boy  speech,  boy  action,  and  boy  psychology. 
Naturally,  in  consequence  of  this,  they  will  not  come  up  to  the 
highest  standard  of  excellence  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
dramatic  critic.  Nor  do  they  teach  lessons.  Most  plays  that 
are  written  for  boys  by  grown-ups  try  to.  In  other  words, 
many  people  who  are  working  with  boys  are  so  busy  educating 
them  that  they  forget  to  amuse  them ;  they  are  so  busy  trying 
to  cultivate  their  tastes  that  they  forget  that  boys  have  tastes, 
and  that  if  these  tastes  are  not  catered  to  there  will  be  little 
progress  in  cultivation.  Our  theatrical  managers  know  that 
they  cannot  fill  their  theaters  all  the  time  with  problem  plays 
and  Shakespeare.  The  public  will  not  stand  for  it.  Neither 
will  the  boy  stand  it  if  his  club  always  supplies  him  with  plays 
that  teach  a  moral.  That  is  why  many  boys'  clubs  attract 
very  few  boys.  They  get  the  "  highbrows,"  the  boys  that  cor- 
respond to  their  elders  who  patronize  the  problem  plays,  but 
the  boy  in  the  street  stays  there,  gets  his  passive  drama  in  the 
nickelodeon  and  his  active  drama  with  the  policeman  as  villain 
and  himself  as  the  pursued  hero. 

The  type  of  farce  here  exemplified  furnishes  an  amusing 
substitute.  They  do  amuse  both  the  boys  and  grown-ups. 


6  TEN    BOYS'    FARCES 

Tne  average  adult  goes  to  a  children's  performance  under  com- 
pulsion, or  because  his  child  or  his  friend's  child  is  in  it.  He 
manages  to  sit  it  out  unless  he  can  make  some  excuse  to  get 
away  early.  He  persuades  himself  that  it  was  "  very  well  done 
for  children,"  and  showers  compliments  on  the  performers  for 
their  work,  making  them  think  they  can  really  act  a  play  when 
they  cannot.  In  consequence  of  this  kind  of  plaudit,  many  a 
highly  praised  amateur  dramatic  "star"  has  been  led  to  sad 
and  sometimes  serious  extinction  on  the  professional  stage, 
while  the  general  effect  on  children  of  telling  them  they  have 
done  something  well  which  they  have  not  done  well  is  certainly 
harmful  to  a  proper  self-appreciation,  which  is  an  essential  of 
socially  bearable  character. 

Now  it  is  a  fact  that  boys  have  performed  the  farces  in  this 
book  before  many  thousands  of  grown-ups  in  many  towns  in 
America,  and  even  in  other  countries,  and  the  audiences  have 
shown  their  appreciation  by  laughing  heartily  and  by  coming 
again  when  the  boys  that  presented  the  farces  have  revisited 
their  town.  These  facts  have  led  me  to  believe  that  while  their 
literary  worth  may  be  doubtful,  there  might  be  some  value  in 
publishing  them  in  a  land  where  Recreation  Centers,  Play- 
grounds, Boys'  Clubs,  Y.  M.  C.  A.'s  and  Settlements  are  all 
doing  dramatic  work,  and  therefore  seeking  suitable  plays. 

I  have  often  heard  people  say  how  hard  it  is  to  find  or  to 
vrite  good  plays  for  boys  to  act.  This  is  probably  true  because 
few  grown  people  have  a  real  understanding  of,  or  real  sym- 
pathy for,  a  boy's  mind,  his  likes  or  dislikes.  However,  the 
boys  can  be  their  own  authors  quite  successfully  with  a  little 
adult  direction  and  assistance,  and  this  combination  has  pro- 
duced the  farces  to  be  found  in  this  volume. 

In  the  Columbia  Park  Boys'  Club  of  San  Francisco,  in  which 
all  of  these  plays  were  originated,  the  boys  meet  every  after- 
noon and  evening  after  school  in  group-clubs  of  twenty-five, 
and  after  a  business  meeting  and  an  hour's  manual  training  work, 
comes  the  time  for  the  "schrade,"  as  the  boys  call  the  acts. 

This  boys'  name  for  them  tells  something  of  their  origin. 
Many  years  ago  in  the  Club  some  one,  tradition  saith  not  who, 
started  Acting  Charades  as  one  among  many  other  well-known 
parlor  games  that  were  used  to  amuse  the  boys.  Acting  Cha- 
rades became  popular,  and  talking  as  well  as  acting  was  intro- 
duced. Then,  gradually,  the  acts  that  were  used  to  represent 
the  syllables  became  more  and  more  elaborate,  and  charades 
began  to  supplant  all  other  forms  of  amusement  as  an  attraction 


IMPROMPTU    DRAMATICS  7 

after  work  hour.  After  a  while,  the  idea  of  representing  a  word 
disappeared  entirely,  and  the  "charade  "  became  in  reality  an 
impromptu  act,  though  the  old  name  still  stuck  and,  though  a 
misnomer,  still  obtains  in  this  Club,  the  boys  pronouncing  and 
even  writing  it  "Schrade." 

"  What  is  the  ' schrade '  going  to  be?  "  "  Who  has  a  good 
idea  for  a  '  schrade '?"  are  the  questions  one  may  hear  any 
afternoon  or  evening.  Some  one  has  an  idea — an  insurance 
office,  a  tramp  barber,  a  plot  gleaned  from  some  story  read,  the 
daily  newspaper,  or  some  local  event — the  action  is  mapped 
out,  a  climax  or  "  ending  "  decided  upon,  the  boys  are  assigned 
their  parts,  there  is  a  rush  for  the  costume  room  where  a  large 
assortment  of  miscellaneous  old  clothes  is  collected,  and  the  act 
begins.  The  words  are  entirely  improvised  as  the  play  pro- 
gresses. 

Fully  fifty  per  cent,  of  the  impromptu  acts  so  produced  are 
lacking  in  good  plot,  the  boy  actors  do  not  put  much  sparkling 
wit  into  them,  they  are  not  much  good  from  any  point  of  view, 
and  are  never  performed  again.  Some  score  a  success  and  are 
repeated  on  another  night.  That  is,  the  same  plot  is  used, 
though  the  dialogue  will  naturally  be  somewhat  different,  as 
different  boys  will  have  the  parts.  Some  are  repeated  over  and 
over  again  until  the  words  as  well  as  the  plot  become  pretty 
well  fixed  by  tradition.  "Rosie,  the  Girl  from  Paris,"  for 
example,  was  originated  somewhere  about  1900,  and  has  been 
performed  thousands  of  times  both  in  the  Club  and  in  public, 
but  I  venture  to  say  that  no  boy  has  ever  taken  a  book  and 
studied  his  part.  In  fact,  the  play  was  never  written  down 
until  a  year  or  two  ago. 

For  "The  Last  Rehearsal, "  I  claim  original  authorship,  that 
is,  I  "had  the  idea,"  and  with  some  of  the  boys  gave  its  first 
performance  (made  up  as  we  went  along,  of  course)  somewhere 
about  1903,  if  memory  serves  me.  However,  the  ending  was 
different,  there  were  many  more  interruptions,  and  there  were 
not  half  the  funny  lines  that  are  in  that  farce  as  it  will  be  found 
printed  here.  These  improvements  have  grown  up  in  the  lit- 
erally two  thousand  times  that  this  has  been  acted  in  the  Club 
itself  and  in  public  performances  given  by  the  boys  all  up  and 
down  California,  across  the  United  States,  and  all  through 
Australia.  That  farce,  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  all,  will 
probably  be  given  many  times  again  by  the  boys  of  the  Club, 
but  I  cannot  vouch  for  the  fact  that  it  will  be  given  as  it  is 
written  down  in  this  book ;  in  fact,  I  strongly  suspect  that, 


8  TEN    BOYS*    FARCES 

although  a  performance  now  would  follow  the  "  lines  "  pretty 
closely,  as  the  words  as  well  as  the  act  have  become  tradi- 
tional, no  single  performance  would  follow  them  exactly,  and 
that  no  two  performances  would  be  exactly  alike  if  one  were  to 
report  them  stenographically.  This  statement  applies  to  public 
performances  just  as  much  as  to  those  in  the  Club  itself;  in 
fact,  it  is  this  very  quality  that  gives  the  public  presentations 
the  spontaneity  that  makes  them  so  much  enjoyed  by  those  who 
see  in  them  a  natural  expression  of  happy  boyhood,  rather  than 
the  outcome  of  long,  wearisome  rehearsals.  It  is  this  quality 
that  makes  the  giving  of  public  performances  a  pleasure  and 
not  labor  for  the  boy  actors. 


EFFECTS  ON  THE  BOYS 

What  then  is  the  effect  of  these  acts  upon  the  boys  that  take 
part  in  them,  other  than  to  amuse?  Have  they  any  educa- 
tional value  in  addition  to  a  recreational  one  ?  I  believe  so. 
Being  spontaneous  expressions  and  not  repetitions  of  somebody 
else's  words,  the  boys  quickly  lose  all  shyness  and  self-con- 
sciousness before  an  audience.  They  never  think  of  stage 
fright.  No  one  ever  forgets  his  lines,  because  if  some  one 
makes  a  mistake  and  says  something  he  should  not,  the  other 
fellow  has  to  cover  it  up  by  new  lines  made  up  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment.  Having  to  improvise  their  lines,  the  boys  learn 
to  think  quickly  and  speak  quickly,  and  in  this  way  this  type 
of  play  offers  a  far  better  method  of  training  in  public  speaking 
than  the  average  boys'  debating  club,  where  the  boys  try  in  a 
stilted  manner  to  discuss  subjects  far  above  their  heads.  It  is 
a  fact  that  any  boy,  and  many  of  them  are  men  now,  that  has 
ever  had  this  training  can  get  on  his  feet  before  an  audience  and 
express  his  thoughts  without  halting  and  blundering  about. 

Moralists  will  probably  note  that  practically  all  of  the  farces 
given  as  examples  in  this  book  are  unmoral,  many  of  them 
almost  immoral  in  showing  the  success  of  deceit  and  similar 
outcomes.  "  Acting  such  plays  will  have  no  good,  and  per- 
haps a  bad,  effect  on  the  boys1  characters,"  I  can  hear  them 
say.  Empirically,  I  can  answer  that  it  has  not  over  a  period 
of  some  fifteen  years.  I  know  of  no  case  where  a  boy  has  been 
tempted  to  wrong-doing  or  active  crime  by  these  acts,  as  they 
are  sometimes  by  seeing  moving  pictures.  That  is  my  empiric 


IMPROMPTU    DRAMATICS 


answer,  but  the  reason  is  not  hard  to  find,  theoretically  and 
psychologically. 


PSYCHOLOGIC  FITNESS 

If  we  bear  in  mind  the  psychology  of  boys  about  the  ages  of 
the  usual  actors  in  these  farces,  ten  to  sixteen,  we  will  note  that 
the  farces  themselves  are  eminently  characteristic  of  that  period. 
Following  the  Recapitulation  Theory,  which  seems  now  to  be 
che  most  generally  accepted  one,  boys  of  this  age  are  considered 
by  such  psychological  authorities  as  G.  Stanley  Hall  and  Pro- 
fessor George  W.  Fiske  as  having  the  same  mental  make-up  as  a 
man  of  the  tribal  and  feudal  periods  in  the  history  of  the  race. 
Let  us  note  some  of  the  characteristics  of  these  farces. 

In  the  first  place,  they  are  traditional,  like  the  literature  of 
the  tribal  and  feudal  periods.  Writing  is  perhaps  easier  for  the 
boy  of  eleven  to-day  than  it  was  for  the  average  adult  of  those 
stages  of  development,  because  he  is  forced  to  learn  it  in  our 
twentieth  century  schools,  but  it  is  nearly  as  distasteful,  and 
the  boy  of  that  age  does  not  naturally  express  himself  in  writ- 
ing. He  is  not  yet  composing  verses  on  the  sly  and  contrib- 
uting stories  to  the  high  school  paper.  That  comes  later.  As 
writing  is  distasteful,  so  is  reading  to  many,  and  the  sitting 
down  and  memorizing  a  part  is  as  unpleasant  as  a  lesson  in 
school,  and  school  is  pretty  unpleasant  for  most  boys  of  this 
age.  In  fact,  most  of  them  are  spoiled  for  higher  education  at 
this  period  of  life  by  acquiring  a  distaste  for  school  or  anything 
that  resembles  it.  The  traditional  side  of  these  plays  therefore 
appeals  immensely,  though  unconsciously,  to  the  boy.  He 
must  follow  the  story,  but  he  can  add  quavers  and  variations 
of  his  own,  just  as  each  itinerant  minstrel  did  in  the  days  of 
traditional  songs  and  stories.  He  acts  a  part,  but  that  part  is 
a  little  bit  of  himself,  and  that  is  why  he  acts  it  well,  and  the 
boys  do  act  these  farces  well,  as  a  rule  far  better  than  the  av- 
erage group  of  boys,  even  when  they  are  drilled  by  a  good 
dramatic  coach. 

Then  again,  an  analysis  of  the  subject  matter  of  even  the  few 
examples  of  the  dramas  here  published  throws  further  light  on 
the  reasons  for  their  popularity.  In  practically  all  of  them  there 
is  a  " rough  house."  Usually  that  is  the  grand  climax  and 
ending.  Most  of  the  humor  is  horseplay.  Naturally,  one  can- 
not expect  boys  of  this  age  to  appreciate  Shavian  wit.  In  fact, 


IO  TEN    BOYS*    FARCES 

how  many  of  us  adults  fail  to  laugh  when  one  comedian 
"  swats  "  another  with  a  broom  ?  It  is  old,  but  it  still  fills  the 
houses.  Practically  all  of  Shakespeare's  humor  is  of  the  horse- 
play variety,  and  he  makes  free  use  of  the  pun  on  words  and 
the  misunderstanding  of  words  that  one  finds  all  through  these 
farces.  The  humorous  passages  may  not  be  considered  the 
highest  expression  of  his  art,  but  the  plays  that  contain  the  most 
of  them  are  the  most  popular  to-day,  and  probably  were  in  his 
own  time. 

What  I  am  driving  at  is  this :  These  farces  may  not  be  a 
high  type  of  literary  expression,  but  they  are  all  boy,  they  are 
the  stuff  that  boys  understand  and  appreciate,  and  most  of  the 
plays  that  are  written  for  boys  are  not.  The  average  adult  who 
sits  down  to  write  a  play  for  boys  wants  to  elevate  them,  so  he 
concocts  a  play  which  he  himself  would  not  go  to  see  had  he 
not  written  it,  but  which  he  thinks  will  be  a  good  thing  for 
boys  to  act,  and  the  boys  do  act  it  for  lack  of  something  better. 
A  boy  cannot  understand  love  scenes,  because  he  has  never  felt 
love,  and  boys  usually  act  these  very  badly,  but,  because  such 
scenes  are  indispensable  in  the  average  play  for  grown-ups,  a 
love  plot  is  often  put  into  a  play  for  boys  where  it  has  no  place. 
"  Rosie,  the  Girl  from  Paris,"  might  be  said  to  have  a  "love 
plot,"  but  it  is  burlesqued  into  just  what  the  average  boy  of  that 
age  thinks  love  is,  something  awfully  silly.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  average  boy  understands  all  about  robbing,  deceiving,  play- 
ing tricks,  and  the  like — juvenile  court  records  attest  that  fact 
— and  he  can  act  scenes  of  this  kind  on  the  stage  even  if  he 
does  not  off  it.  Some  people  no  doubt  think  it  wrong  that  boys 
should  act  such  scenes,  but  to  my  mind  there  is  less  danger 
when  they  have  acted  them  on  the  stage  that  they  will  act  them 
in  real  life.  It  is  folly  to  say  that  a  boy  is  going  to  grow  up 
without  a  knowledge  of  these  things.  Every  one  has  certain 
bad  tendencies,  and  if  he  can  work  them  off  in  imagination,  he 
is  far  less  likely  to  attempt  them  in  real  life. 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  IMPROMPTU  DRAMA 

I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  to  claim  for  the  farces  that 
follow  even  that  they  represent  the  highest  possible  expression 
of  boys'  dramatics :  far  from  it ;  but  I  do  maintain  that  they 
represent  a  real  expression.  The  important  thing  is  their  im- 
promptu nature  and  origin,  the  fact  that  they  are  boy  produc- 


IMPROMPTU    DRAMATICS  II 

tions,  not  produced  for  boys.  The  field  of  expression  in  the 
Columbia  Park  Boys'  Club  has  been  so  far  almost  entirely  lim- 
ited to  farcical  comedy.  Occasionally  melodramatic  acts  have 
been  attempted,  but  none  has  ever  been  really  successful,  that 
is,  none  has  ever  been  so  developed  by  tradition  that  I  or  any 
one  else  knows  it  well  enough  to  write  down.  There  has  been 
a  beginning,  however.  In  the  annual  "  charade  competitions  " 
between  the  various  afternoon  and  evening  clubs  for  the  last  two 
years,  attempts  have  been  made  by  the  boys  to  produce  more 
ambitious  plays.  This  opens  an  interesting  field  for  experi- 
ment, as  yet  practically  untouched.  I  remember,  as  a  boy  my- 
self, I  was  steeped  in  mythology.  Bulfinch's  Age  of  Chivalry, 
the  Boy's  King  Arthur,  and  the  like  were  my  delight,  and  I 
used  to  act  on  my  own  account  great  tragedies  and  heroic 
scenes  from  these  stories,  dressed  in  sheets  and  home-made  tin- 
sel helmets,  with  visors  that  really  could  be  raised  by  means  of 
bent  hairpin  swivels.  I  did  this  by  the  hour,  and  for  a  num- 
ber of  years,  but  either  entirely  alone  or  with  my  playmates. 
We  had  no  adult  audiences  or  adult  assistance ;  in  fact,  we 
avoided  grown-ups,  for  we  felt  rather  silly  and  conscious 
when  they  were  around,  but  now,  looking  back  at  it  from  the 
point  of  view  of  one  interested  in  children's  plays,  I  am  not  a 
bit  ashamed  of  it ;  in  fact,  I  am  rather  proud  of  my  early  dra- 
matic instincts.  I  would  like  to  see  other  boys  doing  likewise, 
for  I  think  they  would  get  lots  of  fun  out  of  it,  and  at  the  same 
time,  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  them,  and  they  could 
do  better  things  than  I  did,  if  they  were  assisted  by  a  little 
sympathetic  adult  suggestion.  There  is  quite  a  movement  to 
interest  boys  in  books  of  chivalry,  why  not  let  them  act  them  ? 
Some  day  I  hope  to  try  this  experiment  with  a  group  of  boys : 
First,  to  get  them  interested  in  King  Arthur,  Roland,  or  some 
hero  of  romance,  and  then  to  work  out  with  them,  impromptu 
fashion,  a  pageant  that  will  be  a  real  pageant,  real  because  the 
actors  will  be  really  trying  to  express  their  historic  feeling,  in 
their  imagination  putting  themselves  back  into  a  past  age  and 
speaking  as  people  of  that  age.  They  will  not  be  merely  mouth- 
ing properly  words  written  for  them  by  some  erudite  person  who 
has  delved  into  ancient  lore. 

We  are  thinking  nowadays  of  amateur  dramatics  as  a  means 
of  education  and  of  self-expression  on  the  part  of  the  actors, 
even  more  than  for  the  amusement  of  the  audiences.  In  fact, 
as  in  modern  amateur  athletics,  we  are  trying  to  bring  all  the 
people  in  as  actors,  not  as  spectators.  The  Drama  League  of 


12  TEN    BOYS*    FARCES 

America  has  some  such  purpose,  but  I  am  told  one  of  their 
chief  difficulties  is  in  finding  suitable  plays  for  children.  Why 
not  let  the  children  make  them  up  with  the  adult  merely  a  guide 
and  mentor  ? 


THE  PART  OF  THE  ADULT 

The  part  of  the  adult  in  this  work  is  worthy  of  special  men- 
tion. As  in  other  forms  of  organized  play,  which  is  what  these 
farces  really  are,  an  adult  leader  is  necessary  to  achieve  the 
best  results.  Naturally,  such  a  leader  should  have  some  quali- 
fications, just  as  any  other  play  leader  must  be  qualified.  He 
must  have  a  certain  ability  as  an  actor  and  some  dramatic  sense. 
In  producing  impromptu  farces,  an  adult  usually  takes  an  im- 
portant part,  and  thus  keeps  the  dialogue  moving,  while  in  the 
preliminary  "  making  up"  of  the  act,  adult  advice  plays  a 
major  role. 

Often,  boys  come  with  an  idea  that  has  none  of  the  elements 
of  a  good  farce,  and  a  more  experienced  head  has  to  turn  it 
down.  Then  again,  an  idea  will  be  suggested  that  is  fairly 
good  in  itself,  but  needs  amplification  and  working  out.  An 
ending  has  to  be  added  and  characters  introduced  that  will  best 
work  out  the  ideas  and  that  are  best  adapted  to  the  actors  that 
happen  to  be  available  for  that  afternoon  or  evening.  In  this 
way,  characters  in  a  farce  are  often  changed.  One  boy 
may  impersonate  a  good  Irishman,  another  a  good  Italian, 
and  so  on.  In  many  of  the  farces,  such,  for  example,  as 
"  Ding-a-Ling "  and  "  Political  Promises/'  it  matters  little 
whether  one  of  the  characters  is  an  Italian  or  an  Irishman, 
therefore  the  part  is  frequently  adapted  to  the  actor.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  character  parts  are  much  easier  to  portray 
than  "straight  "  parts,  that  is  why  so  many  of  them  are  to  be 
found  in  these  farces.  Talking  with  an  unnatural  accent  takes 
the  boy  out  of  himself,  and  he  acts  the  part  better  than  if  he  is 
just  talking  naturally.  All  this  the  adult  leader  must  know  and 
make  use  of. 

There  is  a  whole  series  of  farces  in  which  there  is  the  plot 
skeleton  of  "  The  Boss  and  Business."  The  scene  opens  show- 
ing a  "boss"  and  some  kind  of  an  office  boy.  Several  char- 
acters come  in,  are  deceived,  and  go  out,  then  find  out  their 
deception  and  return  for  revenge,  the  execution  of  which,  or 
the  escape  of  the  deceiver,  being  the  climax  or  "ending," 


IMPROMPTU    DRAMATICS  13 

usually  a  "rough  house."  This  plot  skeleton  furnishes  the 
bones  for  many  and  varied  farces,  three  of  which  are  printed 
in  full  here,  viz.,  "Ding-a-Ling,"  "Political  Promises,"  and 
"Lost  but  Found,"  just  as  in  the  ordinary  drama  the  plots  of 
the  rival  lovers,  the  unfaithful  spouse,  the  person  changed  at 
birth,  the  forbidding  father,  and  the  case  of  mistaken  identity 
furnish  the  bones  for  three-fourths  of  the  plays  that  have  been 
written  and  are  being  written. 

This  type  of  farce — "  The  Boss  and  Business  "  I  have  called 
it — has  been  made  to  include  acts  of  almost  every  kind  of  trade 
and  profession.  The  "Boss"  is  usually  the  adult  worker  or 
an  older  boy,  first,  because  this  is  a  "straight"  part  in  most 
cases  and  therefore  harder  to  act,  though  occasionally  varied 
by  being  a  deaf  man  as  in  "Lost  but  Found,"  and  again  be- 
cause the  dialogue  is  mainly  between  the  "Boss  "  and  each  of 
the  other  characters  in  succession.  This  gives  the  "Boss" 
command  of  the  situation,  and  by  judicious  use  of  question  and 
retort  he  is  able  to  bring  out  the  other  characters  and  make  the 
play  a  success.  More  complicated  plots  are  adapted  only  to 
the  older  boys  who  have  had  some  years  of  experience  in  this 
type  of  acting.  For  the  younger  lads  who  are  just  starting  in, 
the  plot  must  be  very  simple  and  there  must  be  some  one  on 
the  stage  all  the  time  who  is  able  to  keep  talking  and  keep  the 
act  going  so  that  it  will  not  lag.  For  these  ends,  "The  Boss 
and  Business"  type  has  proven  best  adapted. 

When  it  comes  to  the  actual  presentation  of  the  act,  the 
worker  or  older  boy  tells  the  others  the  plot  or  "idea  of  the 
act"  and  assigns  each  boy  his  part,  as  "You  are  an  Italian 
wine-maker.  You  come  in  to  get  a  man  to  make  wine."  The 
boy  must  then  work  out  his  own  dialogue  with  the  aid  of  the 
"  Boss,"  who  tries  to  draw  him  out  and  make  him  say  quite  a 
bit,  and  offers  hints  in  "asides"  when  that  is  necessary  and 
the  boys  are  new  at  the  game.  An  example  of  how  the  part 
assignment  just  given  as  an  illustration  might  be  worked  out 
may  be  found  in  "  Pietro  Vannucci's  "  part  in  "  Ding-a-Ling." 
.  Through  the  use  of  the  adult  organizer  in  ways  such  as  are 
suggested  here,  a  better  type  of  play  is  produced  than  the  boys 
alone  could  evolve,  just  as  in  our  playgrounds  we  are  able  to 
get  better  results  with  proper  supervision  than  we  can  where 
the  children  are  left  entirely  to  their  own  devices.  It  is  an- 
other case  of  directed  self-expression,  influenced  perhaps,  but 
not  ordered.  After  all,  is  this  not  the  key-note  of  the  latest 
thought  in  education,  which  says  that  education  means  "  to 


14  TEN    BOYS'    FARCES 

draw  out "  the  best  we  can  from  the  child,  not  to  cram  in  a  lot 
of  facts  we  think  it  ought  to  know?  I  believe  impromptu 
dramatics  to  be  a  practically  unused  means  for  such  a  "draw- 
ing out,"  founded  upon  an  instinct  ages  old,  and  being  psycho- 
logically fit  for  the  period  of  life  of  the  children  for  whom  the 
work  is  planned.  The  farces  printed  here  only  represent  a 
development  in  one  organization,  and  not  even  there  a  finished 
development.  They  are  the  first  stage  of  a  dramatic  experi- 
ment. I  trust  that  their  publication  will  produce  some  interest 
in  that  experiment,  and  that  it  may  stimulate  others  to  work 
along  these  lines,  by  having  boys  act  the  farces  here  published, 
and  then  go  on  and  improvise  others,  for  these  printed  ones  are 
only  intended  to  be  suggestive.  I  trust  some  one  will  even 
carry  the  idea  further,  and  when  the  boys  get  into  the  swing 
of  the  thing,  try  to  work  out  the  idea  of  impromptu  dramatics 
upon  different  lines  and  to  see  if  the  idea  may  not  be  applied 
successfully  to  other  forms  of  the  drama  than  the  farce. 

But  even  the  farce,  the  crudest  and  most  easily  produced 
type  of  the  drama,  gives  some  training  to  the  dramatic  instinct, 
some  training  in  the  study  of  character,  and  some  training  in 
oral  expression,  and  if  the  actors  go  on  to  more  serious  dra- 
matic work  later  on  when  their  minds  are  really  ready  for  it, 
they  will  be  better  able  to  appreciate  its  difficulties,  as  they  will 
see  how  much  more  difficult  real  acting  is  than  the  production 
of  these  farces.  The  farces  themselves  have  value  because  they 
are  the  most  natural  expression  of  the  happy  and  boisterous 
boy,  and  because  they  lend  themselves  most  readily  to  plots  of 
every-day  life,  to  things  which  boys  know  and  understand. 


PLOT  SOURCES 

To  enumerate  completely  the  sources  of  plots  for  impromptu 
farces  is  as  impossible  as  it  would  be  for  the  regular  drama,  for 
the  final  source  is  the  same,  the  human  brain,  the  ingenuity  of 
which  has  not  yet  been  fathomed.  However,  there  are  certain 
categories  from  which  have  come  many  of  the  acts  that  have 
been  produced  at  the  Columbia  Park  Boys'  Club.  The  enu- 
meration of  these  categories  may  be  of  some  value  to  others  who 
would  like  to  carry  on  this  type  of  work  with  boys.  A  story 
read,  an  actual  incident,  either  seen  or  read  in  a  newspaper,  a 
joke  or  anecdote,  a  business  or  trade,  an  unusual  character,  a 


IMPROMPTU    DRAMATICS  15 

new  invention,  an  important  current  event,  a  new  article  of 
furniture  or  a  new  costume,  a  play  or  sketch  seen  at  the  theater, 
a  moving  picture— all  of  these  have  given  ideas  that  have  ger- 
minated into  impromptu  acts. 

How  an  idea  evolves  into  an  act,  and  how  the  act  may  be 
something  quite  different  from  the  original  idea  is  illustrated  by 
the  following  description  by  one  of  the  older  boys  of  the  Club 
of  how  he  once  worked  up  a  farce : 

"  I  got  the  idea  from  some  story  of  Dickens'.  All  I  remem- 
bered was  that  a  poor  Italian  who  was  hungry  and  ill  dropped 
on  the  street,  and  was  taken  into  the  home  of  a  wealthy  man 
and  cared  for.  I  got  thinking  over  that,  and  one  day  I  met 
one  of  the  fellows,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  it  as  a 
plot  to  work  up  a  funny  sketch  on.  We  thought  about  it  a 
long  time,  and  finally  worked  up  a  'charade.1  We  had  two 
tramps  taken  into  a  home.  One  fellow  played  sick,  and  the 
other  asked  passers-by  for  help.  An  old  man  comes  along  and 
takes  them  both  in.  He  sends  one  of  the  tramps  for  a  doctor, 
but  instead  of  taking  the  message,  the  tramp  goes  out  into  the 
hall  and  disguises  himself  with  the  coat  and  hat  that  he  finds 
on  the  hat-tree,  and  comes  back  to  diagnose  the  case.  He 
examines  the  man  and  says  he  has  had  nothing  to  eat  for  several 
days.  He  orders  a  good  meal  of  cream  puffs  sent  in  imme- 
diately. There  is  a  fine  chance  for  a  good  scene  to  be  worked 
up  here.  Both  tramps  manage  to  eat  all  they  want,  and  then 
they  have  to  invent  a  way  to  get  out  without  giving  the  scheme 
away,  so  the  false  doctor  examines  the  patient  again  and  orders 
his  leg  off.  In  order  to  get  rid  of  the  old  man,  he  tells  him  to 
go  for  his  instruments.  The  old  man  happens  to  have  a  case 
of  instruments  in  the  house  and  brings  them.  Of  course,  the 
victim  has  to  declare  himself,  and  the  finale  is  a  tableau." 

I  might  go  on  and  give  many  similar  illustrations.  Often 
an  idea  is  suggested  by  a  boy,  who  comes  with  a  farce  made 
up  that  the  worker  sees  is  worthless,  yet  the  worker  can  take 
the  idea  and  use  it  for  an  act  that  will  "go."  The  ability  to 
recognize  what  will  work  up  into  an  act  and  what  will  not  de- 
mands a  natural  talent,  but  the  history  of  the  Club  has  proven 
that  many  persons  have  such  a  talent,  so  that  I  doubt  not  but 
that  many  outside  its  walls  will  find  they  can  make  up  acts 
along  these  lines  if  they  try. 

Following  is  a  list  of  suggestive  titles  of  a  number  of  acts  that 
have  been  produced,  and  of  which  the  plots  have  been  noted 
down  in  brief  form  in  the  Club  where  they  were  originated.  I 


1 6  TEN    BOYS'    FARCES 

have  grouped  them  under  various  headings,  both  to  suggest 
their  character  and  the  fact  that  one  general  plot  skeleton  lends 
itself  to  many  variations.  Of  course,  the  incidents  in  the  acts 
are  varied  even  more  than  their  general  substance,  but  I  believe 
that  relegating  them  to  various  categories  may  help  others  to 
think  up  new  acts  along  these  lines.  In  fact,  I  am  quite  sure  that 
if  any  one  takes  any  of  these  titles  as  a  suggestion  for  an  actual 
act,  it  will  be  a  very  different  one  than  the  act  it  is  supposed  to 
be  describing  here.  That  is  no  matter.  This  list  is  intended 
to  be  suggestive  only ;  it  is  far  from  being  exhaustive  even  of 
the  hundreds  of  acts  that  have  been  produced  in  the  Columbia 
Park  Boys'  Club. 

THE  Boss  AND  BUSINESS. 
Actors'  Bureau. 
Getting  an  Ambulance  Driver. 
Dentist  Office. 
Hotel  Pile  Inn. 
Insurance  Ike. 
Employment  Bureau. 
Recruiting  Office. 
Renting  the  Store. 
Country  Grocery  Store. 
Charities. 

Messenger  Boys'  Strike. 
Home  for  Lost  Boys  {Lost  but  Found). 
Hiring  an  Office  Boy. 
Lightning  Photographer. 
Lunacy  Commission. 
School  for  Book  Agents. 
Si  Perkins  Gets  a  Boy  for  His  Farm. 
Ding-a-Ling. 

Before  and  After  Election  (Political  Promises). 
Breaking  in  New  Policemen. 
Carmen's  Strike. 
License  Bureau. 

THE  STUPID  ASSISTANT. 
Dentist's  Assistant. 
Lady  Barber. 
Noisy  Burglar. 
Janitor  Santa  Claus. 


IMPROMPTU    DRAMATICS  17 

• 

PLAYING  TRICKS. 
Bad  Boy. 

A  Farmer's  Visit  to  the  City. 
The  Elopements. 
Chips  Off  the  Old  Block. 

THE  PHENOMENALLY  STRONG  MAN. 
The  Escaped  Lunatic. 
Rosie,  the  Girl  from  Paris. 

TRAMP  FAKERS. 

Alibazoza,  the  Fortune  Teller. 

Thief  in  Undertaking  Parlor. 

Hiring  a  Valet. 

Fake  Telephone. 

Tramps  Replace  Hospital  Patients. 

Fake  Minister. 

Fake  Phonograph. 

The  Tramp  Barbers. 

The  Busy  Brokers. 

FRIGHTENING  PEOPLE. 

Getting  an  Ambulance  Driver. 

The  Miser's  Grave. 

The  Haunted  House. 

The  Evil  That  Men  Do  Lives  After  Them. 

SCHOOL. 

The  Teacher's  Pet. 
Visit  of  the  School  Trustees. 
The  Substitute  Teacher. 
Graduation  Exercises. 

HIDING  PEOPLE. 

Servant  Girl's  Fellow. 
Dodging  the  Cop. 
When  the  Cat  is  Away. 

SWINDLE. 

Lively  Statues. 

Dies  to  Get  Insurance. 

Do  My  Nephews  Love  Me? 

Two  Men  Run  Same  Business. 


1 8  TEN  BOYS*  FARCES 

GETTING  EVEN. 

Rival  Sandwich  Stands. 

Rival  Candidates  in  Same  Hotel. 

Walking  Delegate. 

Killing  Farmer  Cornstalk's  Prize  Pig. 

The  Reversed  Tape  Measure. 

SUDDEN  EXALTATION. 
Out  in  Society. 
Janitor  Becomes  Baron. 
The  Social  Secretary. 

WONDERFUL  INVENTION. 
Electric  Wires. 
The  Hypnotizing  Machine. 
The  Patent  Bore  Ejector. 


SCENERY  AND  PROPERTIES 

Scenery  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  term  is  practically  unknown 
in  the  production  of  impromptu  plays  at  the  Columbia  Park 
Boys'  Club.  The  " Theater"  is  the  same  room  in  which  the 
business  meetings  of  the  various  clubs  are  held.  A  sort  of 
proscenium,  like  the  arch  around  folding  doors,  divides  a  por- 
tion of  the  room  where  four  tiers  of  benches  rise,  each  bench  a 
step  higher  than  the  one  in  front,  from  the  portion  where  there 
is  a  small  table  for  the  president  and  a  desk  of  equal  size  for 
the  secretary.  When  the  time  comes  for  the  "schrade,"  the 
rolling  curtain,  which  heretofore  has  been  hidden  by  the  top  of 
the  proscenium,  is  let  down,  a  string  of  electric  lights,  also  hid- 
den by  the  proscenium,  is  turned  on,  and  the  president's  and 
secretary's  furniture  become  stage  properties,  if  needed,  or  are 
moved  out  of  the  way  entirely.  Within  this  room,  with  no 
scenery,  have  been  enacted  scenes  in  air-ships,  princes'  pal- 
aces, robbers'  caves,  in  heaven  and  in  the  lower  world,  for 
nothing  is  impossible  to  the  boys'  imagination. 

It  is  really  this  quality  of  imagination  that  makes  the  wide 
variety  of  acts  possible,  for  if  any  attempt  were  made  to  prop- 
erly produce  acts  with  regular  scenic  effects,  it  can  be  seen  at 
once  how  their  field  would  be  limited.  A  table  becomes  any- 
thing from  a  bed  or  the  support  of  a  throne  to  the  bridge  of  a 


IMPROMPTU   DRAMATICS  ig 

ship.  An  old  tin  horn  or  the  bell  of  a  broken  musical  instru- 
ment is  a  phonograph,  telephone,  an  ear  trumpet,  the  orifice  of 
a  sausage  machine,  and  many  other  things.  I  remember  one 
act  where  an  ingenious  illusion  was  made  use  of.  The  act  was 
a  license  bureau,  and  a  fellow  comes  in  to  get  a  license  for  his 
dog.  The  dog  never  appears  on  the  stage,  but  growls  and 
barks  in  the  next  room  and  tugs  on  a  rope,  the  end  of  which 
his  master  holds.  His  tugs,  the  master's  soothing  words,  and 
the  comments  of  the  official  in  the  bureau,  who  gains  a  view  of 
him  through  the  open  door,  furnished  much  of  the  fun  of  the 
act.  He  finally  pulls  his  master  down-stairs  (outside),  the  noise 
of  which  is  the  denouement  of  that  episode. 

Sometimes  a  dog  comes  on  the  stage  and  is  remarked  about, 
is  petted,  bites  people,  etc.,  although  the  dog  is  wholly  imag- 
inary. The  audience  gets  all  his  doings  from  the  conversation 
and  antics  of  the  actors.  Occasionally,  an  animal  is  produced 
in  one  of  the  more  conventional  ways,  crudely  done  of  course, 
as  by  a  boy  crawling  on  all  fours,  or  two  boys  together  with  a 
sheet  over  them,  some  rope  for  a  tail  and  some  handy  article  to 
suggest  a  head.  I  am  sure  that  if  some  one  were  to  present  the 
Club  with  a  deer's  head,  it  would  in  a  night  or  so  appear  on 
the  stage,  with  two  boys  and  a  sheet  behind  it,  in  some  act  in- 
spired by  its  advent. 

The  way  in  which  properties  suggest  acts  is  worthy  of  special 
note.  As  I  have  illustrated  above,  any  unusual  piece  of  furni- 
ture or  object  that  comes  into  the  Club  is  almost  sure  to  be  the 
motif  for  a  farce.  At  one  time  after  the  fire  of  1906  the  Club 
was  in  temporary  quarters  where  there  was  a  loft  above  the 
"  stage  "  with  a  trap  door  and  a  ladder  leading  to  it.  The  ex- 
act acts  in  which  this  trap  door  figured  have  escaped  my  mind, 
for  they  fell  into  disuse  with  the  trap  door,  but  I  remember  that 
they  were  many  and  varied. 

Occasionally,  boys  work  up  elaborate  scenic  effects,  camp 
fires  with  an  electric  light  in  them,  sausages  that  move  about 
on  strings,  college  rooms  profusely  decorated  with  pennants, 
and  they  take  as  much  delight  in  this  kind  of  preparation  as  in 
giving  the  act.  Of  course,  such  "  effects  "  are  crude  compared 
with  those  of  the  regular  stage,  but  they  seem  great  by  compari- 
son with  the  usual  lack  of  stage  setting. 

There  is  something  fundamental  in  this  quality  of  make-be- 
lieve scenery.  It  is  akin  to  the  other  primitive  qualities  of  this 
type  of  dramatic  work.  It  reminds  one  of  the  Morality  plays, 
of  the  Chinese  drama,  of  Shakespearean  drama  itself  as  it  was 


2O  TEN    BOYS'    FARCES 

originally  produced.  We  perhaps  forget  that  there  were  no 
fairies  flitting  through  beautiful  painted  trees  and  wonderful 
electric  light  effects  on  the  "first  night "  of  the  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,"  yet  I  daresay  the  audience  reconstructed  these 
things  in  their  imagination  on  the  platform  upon  which  the 
notables  sat.  They  must  have,  for  history  tells  us  the  play  was 
a  success.  Boys,  like  those  Elizabethans,  have  not  yet  lost 
their  imaginations  in  a  matter-of-fact  world. 

The  fact  that  these  acts  call  for  imagination  is  a  point  in  their 
favor,  for  to  my  mind  we  are  not  far  off  the  right  track  when 
we  are  stimulating  imagination  and  idealism,  its  first  cousin,  in 
our  boys,  rather  than  the  realism  to  which  our  modern  stage  is 
painfully,  though  often  most  beautifully,  subservient.  The 
modern  stage  carpenter  and  electrician  have  made  many  a  poor 
play  into  a  successful  production  by  accenting  its  scenic  rather 
than  its  dramatic  quality.  With  boys,  the  dramatic  sense  is  so 
keen  that  scenery  makes  but  little  difference. 

As  for  scenery,  so  for  costume  and  make-up.  Cast-off  cloth- 
ing, of  which  a  goodly  stock  of  all  varieties  is  kept  in  a  small 
room  at  the  Club,  does  for  acts  within  its  doors.  For  public 
performances,  better  costumes  and  more  careful  make-up  are 
employed,  but  these  are  mere  externals.  In  public  performances 
or  in  productions  in  the  Club's  theater,  there  is  the  same  im- 
promptu spirit  in  the  actors,  the  same  spontaneity,  the  same 
quality  of  self-expression  rather  than  poor  expression  of  some 
one  else's  thoughts,  which  to  me  is  the  chief  characteristic  of 
these  farces  and  their  chief  value  as  boys'  plays. 


Ten  Boys'  Farces 


Ding-a-Ling 


CHARACTERS 

MORGAN  SHYSTER,  an  employment  agent. 

FRITZ  KATZENDOODLE,  who  wants  a  job. 

PIETRO  VANNUCCI,  a  wine  maker. 

GEORGE  BONES,  a  bell-boy. 

REUBEN  CORNTASSEL,  a  farmer. 

HEINE  GRAUERHOLZ,  a  sausage  manufacturer. 

SCENE. — An  employment  agency.  Desk,  L. ;  entrance  door,  R. ; 
a  screen  rear  c.,  with  a  stool  behind  it  invisible  to  audience. 
A  chair  or  two. 

(MORGAN  SHYSTER  is  discovered  sitting  at  the  desk  opening 
his  morning  mail.  He  looks  at  each  letter  hurriedly  with 
an  expression  of  disgust  and  throws  it  down  on  the  table.') 

SHY.  I  never  saw  such  a  thing.  Everybody  around  here 
seems  to  want  to  get  some  one  to  work  for  them  and  nobody 
wants  to  work.  Here  are  all  kinds  of  jobs,  and  not  a  man  on 
my  list  to  fill  them.  I  am  never  going  to  collect  any  fees  this 
way,  and  all  these  chances  for  business.  It's  enough  to  drive 
a  man  crazy.  (Knock  outside.)  I  suppose  some  one  else  wants 
to  get  a  man.  Come  in.  (Enter  FRITZ  KATZENDOODLE  with 
a  slow  walk,  taking  in  the  room  and  its  furniture.  SHY. 
rises.)  Good-day. 

KATZ.     Evenink. 

SHY.     I  suppose  you  want  to  get  some  one  to  work  for  you  ? 

KATZ.     York  for  me  ?     No,  I  vant  to  get  a  chob. 

SHY.  You  want  to  get  a  job !  Just  the  man  I  have  been 
looking  for.  (Shakes  his  hand  violently.)  How  do  you  do? 
Glad  to  see  you. 

KATZ.  Yes,  yes ;  let  go  my  hand.  Ouch  !  Say,  vat  do 
you  think  I  am  ? 

SHY.  (refarntng  to  his  desk).  I  have  all  kind  of  jobs  here. 
Here's  a  fellow  wants  a  man  to  clean  out  stables. 


24  DING-A-LING 

KATZ.     Do  you  think  I  vant  to  get  kicked  ? 

SHY.     Well,  here's  a  fellow  wants  a  mixer  for  concrete  work. 

KATZ.     No,  dat's  too  hard.     I  might  get  mixed. 

SHY.     Well,  what  kind  of  a  job  do  you  want  ? 

KATZ.  Vat  kind  of  a  chob  do  I  vant  ?  Veil,  I  vant  to  get 
a  chob  vere  dere's  lots  of  money  and — very  little  vork. 

SHY.  Lots  of  money  and  very  little  work?  Well,  I  don't 

think  you  will  find  many  jobs  like  that  in  (name  of 

town). 

KATZ.     All  right,  den.     (Turns  to  go.*) 

SHY.  (running  after  him  and  seizing  his  arm).  Hey,  wait 
a  minute.  Let  me  think.  Maybe  I  can  fix  you  up.  Let  me 
see.  (Suddenly.*)  I've  got  an  idea !  Come  here,  Dutch. 
I've  got  a  great  scheme.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  hold  down 
a  chair  in  this  office  and  I'll  pay  you  well. 

(KATZ.  proceeds  to  literally  hold  down  a  chair.*) 

KATZ.     Dat's  easy.     How  much  do  I  get  ? 

SHY.  (drawing  him  to  front  of  stage).  No,  no.  You  don't 
understand  me.  Let  me  explain. 

KATZ.     All  right,  explanation. 

SHY.  Well,  you  see  this  is  an  employment  agency  and  peo- 
ple come  in  here  to  get  men  to  work  for  them.  Every  time  I 
get  them  a  man  they  pay  me  a  fee.  Now,  you're  the  man. 

KATZ.     I'm  de  man? 

SHY.     Yes,  every  one  comes  in  here ;  you  take  the  job. 

KATZ.  But  I  thought  I  didn't  have  to  go  to  vork?  Just 
stay  in  the  office. 

SHY.  You  don't  understand.  You  don't  go  to  work.  That 
is,  you  go  to  work,  but  in  reality  you  don't. 

KATZ.     Vere'sdat? 

SHY.     Where's  what? 

KATZ.     Reality. 

SHY.  Don't  be  so  stupid.  (Goes  over  to  desk.*)  Now,  you 
see,  this  is  how  we  work  it.  You're  out  there  behind  that 
screen.  Here's  a  telephone. 

KATZ.     Vere? 

SHY.  Right  here.  (KATZ.  looks  all  over  the  top  of  the  desk 
and  under  it.*)  Sometimes  it's  here  and  sometimes  I  put  it 
over  there. 

KATZ.     Veil,  put  it  over  here  so  I  can  see  it. 

SHY.  You  don't  understand.  There  is  a  telephone  but  in 
reality  there  isn't.  It's  just  imagination. 


DING-A-LING  25 

KATZ.     Chuck  'em  out  de  vindow. 

SHY.     Chuck  who  out  the  window  ? 

KATZ.     Reality  and  Imagination. 

SHY.  Oh,  don't  you  understand?  We  just  make  believe 
there  is  a  telephone.  Now  I  sit  down  like  this  and  I  ring  you 
up  like  this,  "Ding-a-ling-ling-ling.  Send  up  number  eight, 
please." 

KATZ.     Who's  number  eight  ? 

SHY.  You're  number  eight;  one,  two,  three,  four,  five, 
eight,  any  number. 

KATZ.     One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  eight,  any  number? 

SHY.     Yes,  when  I  call  any  number  you  come  up. 

KATZ.     I  come  up? 

SHY.  Yes.  Now  get  behind  that  screen  quick.  I  hear 
some  one  coming. 

(He  rushes  KATZ.  behind  the  screen  and  quickly  resumes 
his  place  at  the  desk  and  pretends  to  be  busy  with  some 
papers  as  PIETRO  VANNUCCI  enters.) 

VAN.     Bona  sera. 

SHY.     How  do  you  do  ?     What  can  I  do  for  you  ? 

VAN.     I  want  to  get  da  man  to  maka  da  jambo. 

SHY.     Make  the  jambo  ?     What's  that  ? 

VAN.     You  know ;  maka  da  foot  juice,  sqeeza  da  grape. 

SHY.     Oh,  1  know ;  you  mean  make  wine. 

VAN.     Sure,  vino.     Dasa  da  word,  vino. 

KATZ.  (standing  on  stool  with  head  coming  above  screen). 
Do  I  come  up  yet  ? 

SHY.  (to  KATZ.,  in  loud  aside).  No,  no.  Get  down.  Wait 
till  I  call  you.  (To  VAN.)  I  think  I  have  just  the  man  for 
you. 

VAN.     Got  da  bigga  da  feet. 

SHY.     Oh,  yes,  very  large  feet. 

VAN.     Cleana  da  feet  ? 

SHY.     Oh,  yes,  he  washes  them  every  day. 

KATZ.   (poking  head  up  over  screen).     I  do  not. 

SHY.  (aside  to  KATZ.).  Sssh  !  (To  VAN.)  Just  a  mo- 
ment. I'll  call  him.  Have  a  seat.  (VAN.  sits  in  a  chair  so 
that  his  back  is  to  the  screen.  SHY.  goes  to  desk  and  talks  into 
his  hollow  handt  resting  his  elbow  on  the  desk  as  though  he 
were  speaking  into  a  telephone.')  Hello!  Ding-a-ling-ling- 
ling. 


26  DING-A-LING 

KATZ.  (behind  screen,  very  loud'}.  Ding-ling-ling-ling-ling- 
ling-ling. 

SHY.     Hello  !     Send  up  number  fourteen,  please. 

KATZ.  {poking  his  head  up  over  screen}.  Hey,  dot  ain't 
my  number.  My  number's  one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  eight, 
any  number. 

SHY.     That's  what  I  said,  any  number. 

KATZ.     Number  eight,  then  ? 

SHY.     All  right ;  number  eight,  then. 

(Motions  him  down  behind  screen) 

KATZ.     Do  I  come  out  now  ? 
SHY.     Yes,  you  come  out  now. 
KATZ.     Yet? 

SHY.     Yes,  come  out  in  a  hurry. 
KATZ.     All  right,  here  I  come. 

(As  KATZ.  comes  around  the  screen,  SHY.  and  VAN.  both 
rise  and  come  forward  to  c.  SHY.  stands  in  the  middle 
with  VAN.  on  his  left  and  KATZ.  on  his  right.  In  this 
position  he  is  able  to  cut  off  KATZ.'S  sallies  and  asides, 
his  actions  in  doing  which  should  form  the  main  fun  of 
the  farce.  This  relative  position  is  the  one  maintained 
through  the  major  portion  of  most  of  the  interviews  with 
subsequent  would-be  employers.} 

SHY.  (to  VAN.).     Here's  your  man. 

VAN.  (to  KATZ.).     Bona  sera. 

KATZ.     Evenink,  Sarah. 

VAN.     You  know  how  to  maka  da  jambo? 

KATZ.     Hey  ? 

VAN.     Maka  da  vino.     Maka  da  vino. 

(He  dances  up  and  down  as  though  treading  on  grapes) 
KATZ.     Shure  I  can  dance.     Hi-lee,  hi-lo. 
(Sings  and  dances  a  bit) 

SHY.  (seizing  KATZ.  and  stopping  him).  Of  course  he 
knows  how  to  make  wine. 

VAN.  (reaching  over  and  lifting  one  leg  of  KATZ.'S  trousers 
slightly].  Not  mucha  da  bigga  da  feet 

KATZ.     Hey,  qvit  tickling  me. 


DING-A-LING  2J 

SHY.  (/0K.ATZ.).  Sssh.  (To  VAN.)  Oh,  yes  he  has.  You 
see  his  shoes  are  very  small ;  when  he  takes  them  off  his  feet 
expand  and  cover  a  very  large  area. 

KATZ.     Oooh,  vat  a  lie  ! 

(SHY.  stops  his  mouth  with  his  hand.) 

VAN.     Oh,  I  guess  he  all  right. 

SHY.  Of  course  he's  all  right.  Now,  when  do  you  want 
him? 

VAN.     You  send  him  down  Bay  Street  Winery,  four  o'clock. 

SHY.  Four  o'clock,  Bay  Street  Winery ;  all  right,  he'll  be 
there. 

KATZ.  (to  SHY.,  in  his  ear).  Hey,  I  thought  you  said  I 
stay  right  in  the  office  ? 

SHY.  (to  KATZ.).     Sssh.     That's  all  right. 

VAN.  (who  is  moving  toward  the  door).     Good-day. 

SHY.     Just  a  moment ;  five  dollars,  please. 

VAN.     Five  dollar  !     Wha'  for? 

SHY.     Why,  for  the  man. 

VAN.  I  pay  da  man.  I  pay  him  two  dollar  a  day  and  all  da 
vino  he  want. 

SHY.  You  don't  understand.  That  is  my  fee  for  getting 
you  the  man ;  I  have  to  live,  you  know. 

VAN.     I  donno  what  you  mean.     Five  dollar  too  much. 

SHY.  Well,  if  you  don't  pay  me  the  five  dollars,  the  man 
won't  be  there,  that's  all. 

VAN.     Well,  I  guess  I  got  to  pay. 

(He  counts  out  the  money  laboriously.) 

SHY.     Good-day,  sir. 

VAN.  Good-day.  You  have  him  down  winery  four  o'clock 
sure  now. 

SHY.     Oh,  yes ;  he'll  be  there  sure.  [Exit  VAN. 

KATZ.     Say,  I  thought  you  say  I  don't  have  to  go  to  work. 

SHY.  You  don't  go  to  work ;  that  is  you  do,  but  in  reality 
you  don't. 

KATZ.     Dere  goes  dot  reality  again. 

SHY.  That's  all  right,  get  behind  the  screen.  I  hear  some 
one  else  coming. 

(KATZ.  goes  behind  screen  ;  SHY.  sits  down  at  desk.) 


28  DING-A-LING 

Enter  GEORGE  BONES. 

BONES.  Good -day,  sah.  De  boss  told  me  to  breeze  around 
here  and  get  a  po'ter  to  carry  the  trunks  up-stairs  at  the  hotel. 

SHY.     Oh,  you  want  a  porter,  do  you  ? 

BONES.     Yes,  sah,  dat's  it,  a  po'ter.     A  big  strong  man. 

SHY.     Do  you  want  a  white  man  or  a  black  man  ? 

BONES.     Ah'd  like  to  git  a  black  man. 

SHY.  Well,  I  haven't  any  black  men,  but  I  have  a  good 
strong  white  man. 

BONES.     Well,  Ah  guess  he'll  do.     Let  me  see  him. 

SHY.  All  right,  have  a  seat.  I'll  call  him  up  from  down- 
stairs right  away.  (BONES  sits.  SHY.  speaks  through  hand  as 
1 'phone.}  Hello,  ding-a-ling-ling-ling. 

KATZ.     Ding-ling-ling-ling-ling-  ling-ling. 

SHY.     Hello,  send  up  number  four. 

KATZ.     Dot  ain't  my  number. 

SHY.     Didn't  I  tell  you  any  number?    Come  up  anyhow. 

KATZ.     Oh,  you  changed  it,  eh  ? 

SHY.     Yes,  come  up  and  don't  talk  so  much. 

KATZ.     Do  I  come  now  ? 

SHY.     Yes,  now. 

KATZ.     Qvick  mit  a  rush. 

SHY.     If  you  don't  come  soon  I'll  come  after  you. 

KATZ.     Come  on,  den. 

(SHY.  starts  after  him,  but  before  he  reaches  the  screen, 
KATZ.  comes  around  the  other  side  of  it.  SHY.  glares  at 
him.  BONES  rises.} 

SHY.  (to  BONES).     Here's  a  fine  strong  man  for  you. 

BONES  (looking  him  over).  Ah  don't  like  dat  bay  window 
effect.  (Points  to  KATZ.'S  large  stomach.} 

SHY.  Why,  that — that's  merely  a  protrusion.  He  piles 
five  trunks  on  top  of  that,  takes  the  grips  in  each  hand,  and 
goes  right  up  the  stairs  with  them. 

KATZ.  (to  SHY.).     Hey,  I  can't  do  dot. 

SHY.  (to  KATZ.).     Of  course  you  can.     Shut  up  ! 

KATZ.   (mumbling).     I  cannot. 

BONES.     Ah  never  saw  a  fellow  do  anyt'ing  like  dat. 

SHY.  Well,  you  see  he's  an  exceptional  man,  just  fitted  for 
the  job. 

BONES.     Well,  Ah  guess  Ah'd  better  take  him  den. 

SHY.     All  right,  when  do  you  want  him  ? 


DING-A-LING  29 

BONES.  Have  him  down  at  de  hotel  at  four  o' clock ;  dat's 
when  de  train  comes  in. 

SHY.  All  right,  four  o'clock  at  the  hotel.  (KATZ  seizes  his 
ear  and  draws  him  aside.  To  KATZ.,  aside.)  What's  the 
matter  now  ? 

KATZ.     Hey,  I  got  dot  oder  chob  at  four  o'clock. 

SHY.     That's  all  right,  I'll  attend  to  that. 

KATZ.     Hey,  but 

SHY.  Shut  up!  (To  BONES.)  He'll  be  there  all  right. 
Five  dollars,  please. 

BONES.     Five  dollars  ?     Why,  de  boss  only  gave  me  ten. 

SHY.  The  boss  only  gave  you  ten,  did  he?  Well,  all 
right,  seeing  that  it's  you,  we'll  let  it  go  for  ten.  (BONES  hands 
him  the  money.'}  All  right;  he'll  be  there  at  four  o'clock. 

BONES.  Aw  right.  Don't  forget  now,  'cos  de  boss  he  be 
mighty  angry. 

SHY.     Don't  you  worry,  he'll  be  there.  [Exit  BONES. 

KATZ.  Hey,  how'm  I  goin'  to  go  dere  at  four  o'clock,  and 
go  de  oder  place  ? 

SHY.  You  don't  go  anywhere.  You  just  stay  right  here. 
Now  get  behind  that  screen  and  mind  your  own  business. 

KATZ.     Veil,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  understood. 

\_Exit  behind  screen  mumbling. 

Enter  REUBEN  CORNTASSEL. 

CORN.     How  do  you  do  ? 

SHY.     How  do  you  do  ?     Glad  to  see  you. 

CORN.     Be  this  the  employment  agency  ? 

SHY.  Yes,  this  is  the  employment  agency ;  is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you  ? 

CORN.  Waal,  you  see  I  want  to  get  a  boy  to  work  on  the 
farm. 

SHY.  Oh,  I  see;  a  boy  to  work  on  the  farm.  I  suppose 
you  want  a  good  strong  boy,  one  not  afraid  to  work  ? 

CORN.     By  heck,  that's  just  what  I  do  want. 

SHY.  I've  got  just  the  fellow  you  want.  Wait  till  I  call 
him  up.  (CORN.  sits.  SHY.  speaks  through  ' } phone.')  Hello, 
ding-a-ling-ling-ling.  (KATZ.  snores .)  Ding-a-Hng-ling-ling. 
(Another  snore ;  aside.}  That  confounded  Dutchman  must 
have  gone  to  sleep.  (Goes  behind  screen .) 

KATZ.  (behind  screen}.  Help!  murder!  fire!  thieves! 
Oh,  I'm  drowning  !  Save  me  !  Save  me  !  (Enter  KATZ.  and 
SHY.,  the  latter  dragging  by  the  collar  the  former,  who  is  half 


30  DING-A-LING 

asleep  and  acting  as  though  he  was  swimming.  As  they  reach 
the  front  of  the  stage  KATZ.  straightens  up  and  yawns.}  Vere 
am  I? 

SHY.  (to  KATZ.,  shaking  htm).  Here,  wake  up  !  Wake 
up  !  (To  CORN.)  Here's  a  fine  strong  boy. 

CORN,  (who  has  been  seated  with  his  back  to  all  this,  look- 
ing around  the  room).  Oh,  yes,  yes,  the  boy.  (Rises  and 
comes  forward.  To  KATZ.)  How  do  you  do?  Say,  boy, 
can  you  pitch  hay  ? 

KATZ.     Hey  ? 

CORN.     Hay. 

KATZ.     Hey?     Vat? 

CORN.     Hay. 

SHY.     Hay,  hay,  hay  ! 

KATZ.  (to  SHY.).     Now  vat  do  you  vant? 

CORN.     Hay  that  you  feed  horses. 

KATZ.     Oh,  you  mean  dry  grasses  ? 

SHY.     Yes,  of  course ;  what  did  you  think  he  meant  ? 

CORN,  (laughing).  Ha,  ha,  dry  grasses.  Why  didn't  we 
think  of  that  before  ? 

SHY.  Well,  you  see,  he  knows  all  about  farming.  He 
knows  that  hay  is  dry  grass.  Just  the  man  you  want. 

CORN,  (to  KATZ.).    You  don't  mind  getting  up  at  three  A.  M.  ? 

KATZ.   (to  SHY.).     Vat's  dot  A.  M.  ?     After  meals? 

SHY.  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  (To  CORN.)  Yes,  he  likes  to 
get  up  at  that  hour,  don't  you  ? 

KATZ.     Shure,  dot  just  suits  me. 

CORN.  I  guess  he'll  do.  Now  let  me  tell  you  how  we  get 
there.  You  see  we  get  off  at  the  Gerseyville  station,  and  then 
I  take  you  in  my  buggy. 

KATZ.     Who's  buggy? 

CORN.     My  buggy. 

KATZ.     You're  buggy  ? 

CORN.     Yes. 

KATZ.     I  t'ought  you  vas. 

CORN.     Thought  I  was  what  ? 

KATZ.     T'ought  you  was  buggy. 

CORN.     Here,  here,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

SHY.  {pushing  KATZ.  out  of  the  way).  That's  all  right,  he 
doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about.  When  do  you  want  him  ? 

CORN.  Well,  I've  got  to  catch  the  four  o'clock  train  to  Ger- 
seyville. If  I  don't  get  that  one  I  have  to  wait  until  next  Fri- 
day.  So  I  want  him  at  the  station  at  four  o'clock. 


DING-A-LING  31 

KATZ.  (to  SHY.).  Hey,  I  got  to  go  de  oder  place  at  four 
o'clock. 

SHY.  (suppressing  KATZ.).  That's  all  right.  He'll  be  there 
in  plenty  of  time  to  catch  the  four  o'clock  train. 

CORN.  Well,  now,  don't  let  him  be  late,  because  I've  got 
to  get  home  to  feed  my  cows.  Good-day. 

SHY.     Wait  just  a  moment,  please.     Five  dollars,  please. 

CORN.     Five  dollars  !     What  for  ? 

SHY.     Why,  for  the  man,  of  course. 

CORN.  Why,  I  don't  pay  as  much  as  that  for  one  of  my 
best  cows. 

KATZ.     Vat ! 

(Starts  after  CORN.,  but  SHY.  restrains  him.*) 

SHY.  Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  that  is  our  general  fee  here.  If 
you  don't  pay  that  you  don't  get  the  man. 

CORN.  All  right,  then ;  I've  got  to  have  that  boy.  (Takes 
out  and  unrolls  a  long  stocking  and  produces  the  money  from 
the  toe.)  There  you  are — one,  two,  three,  four,  five.  Have 
him  there  at  four  o'clock. 

SHY.     All  right,  four  o'clock.  \_Exit  CORN. 

KATZ.     I  got  him. 

SHY.     Got  who? 

KATZ.     General  Flea. 

SHY.     Get  out  of  here. 

(Pushes  him  behind  screen  and  sits  at  desk.) 
Enter  HEINE  GRAUERHOLZ. 

GRAU.  Hillo  !  My  name  is  Heine  Grauerholz.  I  vant  to 
git  a  man  to  do  de  voik  de  oder  fellow  used  to  do,  so  I  von't 
have  to  do  de  voik  dat  he  used  to  do.  Veil,  how  do  you  do  ? 

SHY.     Oh,  fine  !     But  what  kind  of  work  do  you  do  ? 

GRAU.     I  vant  to  get  a  man  to  make  de  sausages. 

SHY.  Make  the  sausages  !  I  have  just  the  fellow  for  you. 
A  German. 

GRAU.     Dot's  chust  vat  I  vant,  a  Choiman. 

SHY.  Just  a  moment.  I'll  get  him  for  you.  Have  a  seat. 
(GRAU  sits.  SHY.  "'phones")  Hello,  ding-a-ling-ling-ling. 

KATZ.   (behind  screen).     Line  is  busy  ! 

SHY.     Here  !     What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

KATZ.     Dey  don't  answer  ! 

SHY.     Stop  your  fooling  and  come  out  here. 


32  DING-A-LING 

KATZ.     Drop  your  nickel ! 

SHY.  This  is  a  free  'phone.  You  come  out  here  or  I'll 
come  after  you. 

KATZ.     All  right.     Come  on,  den. 

(SHY.  jumps  up  angrily  and  KATZ.  comes  out.     Walks  to 
front.     GRAU.  turns  around  and  sees  him.) 

GRAU.  Vy,  Fritz!  Hello,  Fritz!  Wie  geht  es  ihnen 
noch  einmal.  Wo  wohnen  sie  ? 

( They  embrace.) 

KATZ.     Hillo,  Heine.     Wie  geht  es  die  Kinder  ? 

SHY.  (separating  them).  Here,  here,  you'll  have  to  talk 
English  here  so  I  can  understand. 

GRAU.     Dot's  Fritz.     I  used  to  know  him  in  de  old  country. 

SHY.  That  don't  make  any  difference.  I  have  to  under- 
stand. 

GRAU.     Hey,  Fritz,  he's  a  bum. 

SHY.     Who's  a  bum  ? 

GRAU.     Dot's  all  right.     I  vas  talking  to  Fritz. 

SHY.     Well,  you'd  better  be. 

GRAU.  Say,  Fritz,  you  vant  to  come  und  made  de  sausages 
like  ve  used  to  in  Choimany  ?  You  know,  grab  de  dogs  by  de 
tail  and  choke  'em. 

KATZ.     Shure.     Do  you  put  de  bones  in  'em  ? 

GRAU.  No,  dey  don't  let  us  put  de  bones  in  'em  in  dis 
country,  but  ve  put  de  hair  in. 

KATZ.     Vat  do  you  put  de  hair  in  for  ? 

GRAU.  Veil,  you  see  my  broder  has  a  brewery  next  door, 
and  ven  de  beoble  eat  de  sausages  mit  de  hair  in,  it  tickles  dere 
t'roats  and  dey  go  to  my  broder  and  get  a  beer. 

KATZ.     Come  on,  ve  get  a  beer. 

GRAU.     All  right,  come  on. 

(They  lock  arms  and  start  for  the  door.) 

SHY.  (seizing  KATZ.).     Here,  here,  where  are  you  going  ? 

GRAU.     Dot's  all  right.     I  take  Fritz  out  to  get  a  beer. 

SHY.  Well,  he  can't  go  now.  You  see  he  has  some  work 
to  finish  for  me. 

GRAU.     Can't  he  come  down  to  de  sausage  factory  ? 

SHY.  Oh,  yes,  he'll  be  there  later.  When  do  you  want 
him  ? 


DING-A-LING  33 


GRAU.     I  vant  him  four  o'clock  shure. 
KATZ.     Hey,  I  got  to  go  three  oder  - 


SHY.  (to  KATZ.).  Sssh  !  (To  GRAU.)  That's  all  right; 
he'll  be  there. 

GRAU.     All  right,  send  him  down  to  de  sausage  factory. 

SHY.     Where  is  that  ? 

GRAU.     On  Third  Street,  next  to  the  Pound. 

SHY.     Next  to  the  Pound  ! 

GRAU.     Ya,  ve  get  plenty  dogs  dere.    (Starts  for  the  door.) 

SHY.     Just  a  moment.     Five  dollars,  please. 

GRAU.     Five  dollars  !     For  vat  ? 

SHY.     For  that.     (Points  at  KATZ.) 

GRAU.  Five  dollars  for  dat !  Do  you  tink  I  vant  to  make 
de  sausages  out  of  dat  ? 

SHY.  Oh,  you  don't  understand.  That  is  what  you  pay 
me  for  getting  you  that.  That  is  my  fee. 

KATZ.     Yes,  dot's  his  flea. 

GRAU.     Veil,  I  don't  know.     I  don't  see  vy  I  haf  to  pay. 

SHY.  Well,  if  you  don't  pay  for  that,  you  don't  get  it, 
that's  all. 

GRAU.  Veil,  all  right.  I  guess  I  got  to  pay.  (Pays  the 
money.}  Good-day.  {To  KATZ.)  Don't  forget  now.  Four 
o'clock.  \Exit. 

SHY.  That's  all  right,  he'll  be  there.  (To  KATZ.)  What 
are  you  looking  for  ? 

KATZ.     For  dat. 

SHY.  Well,  you're  that !  Now  get  behind  the  screen  and 
don't  bother  me. 

KATZ.  Veil,  how  I  going  to  go  to  Heine  at  four  o'clock  ? 
I  got  to  go  dose  oder  fellows. 

SHY.  You  don't  go  anywhere.  You're  the  worst  dunce  I 
ever  saw.  Get  back  behind  that  screen. 

(Pushes  KATZ.  behind  screen  and  sits  down.} 
Enter  VAN.,  excitedly. 

VAN.  Sacramento  !  Four  o'clock,  no  man  down  da  winery. 
Hey,  wat's  a  da  mat  ? 

SHY.     Why,  there  must  be  some  mistake. 

Enter  BONES. 

BONES.     Where's  dat  po'ter?    Fo'r  o'clock,  no  po'ter. 
SHY.     What !     Didn't  he  come  ? 


34 


DING-A-LING 


Enter  CORN. 


CORN.     Where's  my  boy? 
ville.     Where's  my  boy? 
SHY.     Didn't  he  come? 


I've  missed  my  train  to  Gersey- 


Enter  GRAU. 

GRAU.     Vere's  Fritz  ?     I  vant  Fritz. 

VAN.     ^  (  Four  o'clock.   No  man.   What's  a  da  mat  ? 

etc. 

Where's  dat  po'ter  ?    Where  dat  po'ter  ? 
Vere  iss  Fritz  ?     I  vant  Fritz. 
Where's  my  five  dollars  ?    I  want  my  boy. 
gentlemen,   one  moment,  please.     You 


(all , 
\gether) 


BONES 

GRAU. 

CORN. 

SHY.     Gentlemen, 
don't  understand. 

CORN.     I  want  my  boy. 

GRAU.     Vere  iss  Fritz  ? 

SHY.  One  moment,  please.  You  don't  understand  !  You 
see  I'm  not  the  proprietor  here,  I'm  only  the  clerk.  If  you 
will  just  wait,  the  boss  will  be  in  right  away. 

\_Exit  amid  wondering  looks. 

CORN,   (bewildered}.     I  want  my  boy. 

KATZ.  (behind  screen).  Ding-ling-ling-ling-ling-ling-ling. 
(Pause.*)  Ding-ling-ling-lmg-ling-lmg-ling.  Hey,  you,  vat's 
de  matter  ?  I  don't  vant  to  stay  behind  here  all  day.  Hey  ! 

Enter  KATZ.  They  all  seize  him,  shouting,  "  There' s  my 
boy"  "Vere  vas  you,  Fritz?"  "Come  with  me"  etc., 
and  try  to  pull  him  in  all  directions. 


CURTAIN 


The  Last  Rehearsal 


CHARACTERS 

THE  STAGE  MANAGER. 
THE  GENERAL. 
THE  SPY. 
THE  ASHMAN. 
THE  CARPENTER. 
THE  ORDERLY. 

SCENE. — A  disorderly  stage.     Scenery  scattered  promiscuously 
about,  with  back  toward  audience,  etc. 

Enter  GENERAL.      Walks  up  to  front  of  stage  muttering  over 
and  over  as  if  learning  something. 

GEN.  This  is  the  day  and  this  is  the  hour.  This  is  the  day 
and  this  is  the  hour.  (Enter  SPY.)  This  is  the  day  and 
this 

SPY.     Gee,  you  think  you're  an  actor,  don't  you? 

GEN.  An  actor  !  What  are  you  getting  so  funny  for?  I 
guess  I'm  a  good  deal  more  of  an  actor  than  you  are. 

SPY.     You  are,  hey  !     Well,  I'm  the  star  of  this  show. 

GEN.  What,  you  the  star?  Why,  the  general's  part  is  the 
star  part.  Isn't  my  name  first  on  the  list? 

SPY.  No,  the  spy  is  the  star.  (Enter  MANAGER,  reading.) 
I  tell  you  I  was  hired  as  the  star  of  this  show. 

GEN.  Here  comes  the  manager  now,  we'll  ask  him.  Say, 
Manager,  who's  the  star  of  this  show  ? 

MAN.  (looking  up  from  book,  a  little  absorbed  at  first ) .  Eh  ! 
Hum  !  What-er.  Who's  the  star  of  this  show  ?  (Disgustedly.) 
Star  !  Star  !  Did  you  say  star?  There  isn't  any  star  in  this 
show  ! 

SPY.     Wasn't  I  hired  to  be  the  star? 

MAN.     What !  for  five  dollars  a  week  ? 

SPY.     Well,  I'm  more  of  a  star  than  he  is  anyhow.     Ain't  I? 

MAN.     You're  both  pretty  poor.     There  never  will  be  any 

35 


36  THE    LAST    REHEARSAL 

star  in  this  show  as  long  as  you  two  are  in  it !  (To  SPY.) 
.Now,  you  get  off  the  stage.  I  want  to  begin  the  rehearsal. 

SPY.     Well,  now,  ain't  I  better  than  he  is? 

MAN.     Get  off  the  stage,  will  you  ? 

SPY.     Well,  now,  manager 

MAN.  Get  off  the  stage!  (Exit  SPY;  to  GEN.)  Now 
let's  try  that  battle  scene  in  the  third  act.  Yesterday  that  third 
act  was  vile ;  it  was  putrid ;  it  was  unspeakably  bad.  (GEN. 
winces  at  each  epithet.)  Do  you  realize,  sir,  that  to-morrow 
night  we  give  this  show,  that  this  is  our  last  rehearsal !  For 
heaven's  sake,  put  all  your  heart  into  your  work  to-night,  for 
my  reputation  as  a  stage  manager  is  as  much  at  stake  as  yours 
is  as  an  actor.  Now  let's  begin  the  third  act.  Your  soliloquy. 
(Pause.)  Well,  go  on  !  (Pause.)  Well,  go  on  ! 

GEN.     What's  the  first  word  ? 

MAN.  (in  a  rage).  What !  the  first  word  !  Oh  !  I'd  be 
ashamed  of  myself.  You  ought  to  know  that  part  long  ago. 
You've  had  two  weeks  to  study. 

GEN.     Just  the  first  word,  that's  all. 

MAN.     Confound  you,  anyhow.     You  ought  to  know  it. 

GEN.     Just  tell  me  the  first  word. 

MAN.     Oh.     .     .     .     Brrrr- 

(Turns  over  the  pages  of  his  prompt  book.) 

GEN.     You  don't  know  it  yourself. 

MAN.  I'm  not  supposed  to.  Am  I  playing  the  part?  Here 
it  is:  (Enter  SPY  at  side.)  "This  is  the  clay  and  this  is  the 
hour."  Now  go  on. 

GEN.     Oh,  I  knew  that  all  the  time. 

MAN.     Knew  it  all  the  time  !     You  make  me  tired.     Go  on. 

GEN.  "  This  is  the  day  and  this  is  the  hour  when  the  eagle 
of  victory  shall  perch  upon  the  flag  of  my  country." 

(This  should  be  spoken  very  badly.) 

MAN.  Oh,  stop  that.  Put  some  life  into  that.  That's 
fearful. 

SPY.     Gee,  didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  rotten? 

MAN.  (to  SPY).  Get  off  the  stage,  will  you?  {Exit  SPY; 
to  GEN.)  No,  you've  got  to  put  some  life  into  this.  Watch 
me.  Now,  just  watch  me,  will  you  ? 

Enter  ASHMAN  ;  sets  down  barrel ;   MAN.  watches  him  dazed. 


THE    LAST    REHEARSAL  37 

ASH.     Say,  boss,  you  tella  me  where  I  finda  de  ash. 

MAN.  The  ash,  the  ash  !  What  do  you  think  I  am — the 
janitor !  You  go  out  there  and  ask  the  fellow  in  the  box  office. 
He'll  tell  you  where  to  find  the  ash.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  Out  there  I  Do  you  hear  ?  Out  there ! 

ASH.     Whata  you  say  ?     I  don'  understan'  English. 

MAN.  Get  off  the  stage — will  you — get  off  the  stage ! 
(Drives  off  ASH.)  Confound  these  interruptions.  (To  GEN.) 
Now,  then,  I'll  show  you  how  to  do  that  thing.  Watch  me. 
(GEN.  looks  at  audience.)  Will  you  look  at  me,  sir?  (GEN. 
still  looks  front.)  If  you  will  watch  me,  you'd  hear  something. 
Will  you  watch  me? 

GEN.     I'm  staring  at  you,  man. 

MAN.  That's  what  I  want  you  to  do.  Here's  the  way  I 
want  it  done.  (Heroically.)  "  This  is  the  day  and  this  is 
the  hour,  when  the  eagle  of  victory  shall  perch  upon  the  flag 
of  our  country. "  {Enter  CARPENTER  ;  throws  boards  down  on 
stage  and  begins  to  hammer  just  as  word  "  country  "  is  spoken.) 
Say,  what  is  this,  anyhow  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 

CARP.  I'm  just  fixing  up  the  stage  for  to-night.  The  man- 
ager, he  tells  me  to  come  up  here  and  earn  my  three  dollars. 

MAN.  Well,  you'll  have  to  get  off  the  stage.  I'm  having  a 
rehearsal  here.  You'll  have  to  get  off. 

CARP.     Oh,  yer  havin'  wan  of  them  practices,  are  ye  ? 

MAN.     Yes. 

CARP.     Ye'll  excuse  me  interrupting,  won't  ye  ? 

MAN.     Certainly.     Just  get  off  the  stage. 

CARP.     No  harm  done,  I  hope? 

MAN.     No,  no.     Just  get  off  the  stage. 

CARP.     You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you? 

MAN.     Yes,  certainly.     Just  get  off  the  stage. 

CARP.  We're  just  as  good  friends  as  ever.  Aren't  we? 
You  and  me,  we'll  have  a  beer  after  a  while. 

MAN.  Yes,  yes.  (CARP,  bows  himself  off.)  Confound 
these,  interruptions.  I'll  go  crazy.  (To  GEN.)  Now  go  on. 
You  see  how  to  do  it.  Now  put  some  life  into  it. 

GEN.  (without  expression).  "  This  is  the  day  and  this  is 
the  hour,  when  the  eagle  of  victory  shall  perch  on  the  flag  of 
my  country." 

MAN.  (aside).  Oh,  worse  and  worse,  the  more  we  try. 
{Aloud.)  It's  impossible,  but  go  on  with  your  part.  We'll 
have  to  let  this  go.  Go  on. 

GEN  .      < *  Forward  the  orderl  y . " 


38  THE   LAST   REHEARSAL 

ORDERLY  (without).     Wait  a  moment.    I  can't  find  my  gun. 
MAN.     Can't  find  your  gun  !     You've  had  an  hour  to  find 
it.     Come  in  anyhow.     Any  old  thing  will  do. 
ORD.  (without ).     All  right ;  here  I  come. 

Enter  ORD.  with  broom  upside  down  on  shoulder,  and  walks 
across  stage  to  GEN. 

MAN.  One  moment,  please.  This  is  a  military  drama,  sir ; 
did  you  come  in  like  a  soldier  ? 

ORD.     What  did  I  come  in  like  ? 

MAN.  You  came  in  like  some  lumbering  longshoresman. 
This  has  to  be  military,  military.  Now  watch  me ;  watch  me. 
( Takes  broom  and  shows  him  entrance,  lifting  feet  high,  com- 
ing close  in  front  of  GEN.,  coming  to  order  arms  and  saluting 
with  left  hand ;  GEN.  returns  salute.)  Now  that's  what  I  call 
a  military  entrance.  Try  that  now.  (Hands  him  broom  and 
exit  ORD.  To  GEN.)  All  right  now. 

GEN.     "Forward  the  orderly." 

Enter  ASH.  in  place  of  ORD.  ;  walks  across  the  stage,  then  back 
to  MAN. 

ASH.  (disgustedly).     I  can't  find  the  ash  anywhere. 

MAN.  Will  you {Controls  his  rage  with  an  effort 

and  then  speaks  in  a  low  tone,  but  rapidly.*)  What  the  devil 
are  you  doing  here  again?  (Loud.)  Get  off  the  stage,  will 
you  ?  I'll  lose  my  temper  in  a  minute  and  do  you  personal 
violence  !  Get  off  the  stage,  will  you  ? 

ASH.  Sacre  denio  !  You  don't  know  me.  Do  you?  Me, 
Pedro  Bologna.  Bah !  Me,  President  Scavenger's  Union ; 
me  boycott  your  show.  (As  he  passes  GEN.)  Bah!  (GEN. 
jumps.  Exit,  L.,  muttering.)  Sacre  Dio,  etc. 

MAN.     For  heaven's  sake  go  on  with  this  act. 

GEN.     < '  Forward  the  orderly. ' ' 

Enter  ORD. 
MAN.     Lift  your  feet ! 

(ORD.  does  so,  halts  and  salutes.*) 

ORD.     How  many  times  do  I  salute? 

MAN.  Three  times,  of  course.  It's  a  general,  isn't  it?  You 
ought  to  know  that  much  about  military  affairs  ! 


THE    LAST    REHEARSAL  39 

(ORD.  salutes  and  GEN.  returns) 
GEN.     "  Take  these  dispatches  to  General  Mitchell." 

(Hands  dispatches  to  ORD.  ORD.  faces  about,  shoulders 
arms,  hits  GEN.  in  face  with  broom  as  he  turns,  and 
begins  to  march  off) 

MAN.  Don't  forget  to  drop  them.  (ORD.  throws  them 
down)  Here  !  Come  back  here  ! 

ORD.     Why  ?     What's  -the  matter  ?     Didn't  I  drop  them  ? 

MAN.  (sarcastically).  Do  you  call  that  dropping  them? 
You  threw  them  down.  Now,  this  thing  has  got  to  be  done 
naturally,  naturally  !  Now  watch  me,  naturally !  Just  as 
though  you  tried  to  put  them  in  your  pocket  and  they  fell  out. 
Watch  me  now.  (Shows  him  how)  Now,  that's  the  way  to 
do  it.  Go  on,  try  it  over  again. 

(ORD.  goes  back  to  GEN.,  giving  him  the  dispatches) 

GEN.     "Take  these  dispatches  to  General  Mitchell." 

ORD.  (taking  them  and  starting).     Gee  !     I  forgot  to  salute. 

MAN.  Oh  !  Never  mind.  Go  on,  go  on.  (ORD.  drops 
them  much  as  before.  MAN.  gives  an  exclamation  of  disgust) 
Go  on,  go  on.  "  Hark,  I  hear " 

GEN.     "  Hark,  I  hear  the  sound  of  battle  !     Off  to  war  !  " 

MAN.  (to  GEN.).  Wait  a  minute.  (To  outside)  Say, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  fellows  ?  Don't  you  know  your 
cue  yet?  When  he  says  "battle,"  the  word  "battle,"  that's 
the  cue.  Go  on,  now  !  "  Hark,  I  hear  the  sound  of  battle  !  " 
(Battle  outside)  Hey,  stop  the  battle  !  Stop  the  battle,  will 
you?  When  he  says  "battle  "  not  when  I  say  it.  What's  the 
matter  with  you  anyhow  ?  Go  on. 

GEN.  "  Hark,  I  hear  the  sound  of  battle  !  (Battle  begins) 
Off  to  war  !  "  (Draws  sword  and  exit) 

MAN.  (looking  in  all  directions,  calling  out).  Where's  the 
spy?  Where  are  you?  Where's  the  spy?  (Enter  SPY, 
walking  slowly  up  to  front  of  stage)  Is  that  the  entrance  I've 
showed  you  ? 

SPY.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  I'm  lucky  to  get  through 
that  battle  alive. 

MAN.  Stop  your  nonsense  !  That's  no  way  for  a  spy  to 
come  in.  Now  watch  me.  I've  shown  you  this  twenty  times. 
(Exit  MAN.,  and  r  centers  crouching,  taking  a  few  steps,  put- 


40  THE    LAST   REHEARSAL 

ting  right  hand  to  eyes,  looking  about ;  then  a  few  more  and 
left  hand  to  eyes.  Looks  at  dispatches  on  floor,  points,  makes 
a  jump  for  them,  seizes  them,  rushes  to  c.  in  front,  holds  them 
up;  SPY  follows,  watching  him.)  "Ha!  Dispatches!  Now, 
General  Mitchell,  you  are  mine  !  "  Now,  that's  the  way  I 
want  this  done. 

SPY.     Gee,  you  look  like  you're  in  swimming. 

MAN.  Never  mind  what  I  look  like.  If  you  could  do  it 
half  as  well  as  I  can,  you  might  look  like  something.  You  do 
it  the  way  I  tell  you.  {Exit  SPY,  and  reenters  clumsily  like 
MAN.)  Put  your  hand  on  your  eyes,  not  on  your  ear. 

SPY.  "  Ha !  Dispatches  !  Now,  General  Merchandise, 
you  are  mine  !  " 

MAN.  General  Mitchell  !  General  Mitchell,  not  General 
Merchandise  ! 

SPY.  Say,  what  do  you  call  this  ?  (Holds  up  the  dispatches.} 
This  is  only  a  laundry  bill. 

MAN.  Oh,  Heavens  !  You  don't  have  to  have  real  dis- 
patches— any  old  thing  will  do.  (Tears  his  hair,  etc.} 

Enter  CARP.,  R. 

CARP,  (calling  to  man  above  in  the  flies').  Will  you  let  that 
drop  down  ?  No,  the  other  side.  Not  that  side — the  other. 
You  blooming  muttonhead  up  there,  you're  making  me  mad. 

(  Various  flies  should  be  lowered  and  hoisted.} 

MAN.     Get  off  this  stage  !     (Pushes  CARP.) 

CARP.  Take  your  hands  off  me.  ( To  FLYMAN.)  I'm  com- 
ing up  there  and  break  your  head.  (To  MAN.)  I'm  going, 
I'm  going.  Don't  push  me  when  I'm  excited.  I'm  not  re- 
sponsible. \_Exit,  L.  ,  storming  at  FLYMAN. 

MAN.  Oh,  Heavens  !  Where  were  we — these  infernal  in- 
terruptions. Where  the  devil  were  we?  (Looks  up.)  He 
don't  want  any  scenery  moved,  do  you  hear  !  Oh,  yes,  the 
General ;  come  on.  The  General  ! 

Enter  GEN.,  R.,  drawing  sword. 

GEN.  "  Ah,  ha,  Percy  Leffingwell,  at  last  I  have  you  in  my 
power  !  Ah,  ha  !  " 

(Runs  at  him,  thrusts  sword  under  his  arm  and  works  it 
back  and  forth.} 


THE    LAST    REHEARSAL  4! 

MAN.     Hay,  there  !     Don't  saw  him  to  pieces  ! 

SPY.     Gee,  you  must  think  I'm  a  spring  mattress. 

MAN.  (taking  sword}.  What  do  you  think  you  did  ?  Put 
some  dramatic  power  into  your  part.  If  you're  going  to  kill  a 
man,  do  it  dramatically  !  {Crosses  to  SPY.)  Now  you — you 
get  your  arm  out  just  right.  You  see  1  Like  this;  so  that  the 
sword  will  go  just  under  it.  (To  GEN.)  Now,  watch  me  ! 
Now,  watch  me  !  (To  SPY,  who  is  holding  his  arm  almost 
horizontal.}  What's  the  matter  with  you  anyhow ?  Don't  you 
suppose  the  audience  can  see  that  ? 

SPY.  Well,  I'd  rather  the  audience  would  see  it  than  get 
stuck  with  that  thing. 

MAN.  Never  mind  about  that,  now.  You  do  it  the  way 
I  tell  you.  The  thing  has  got  to  be  realistic,  realistic.  There, 
that's  better.  (To  GEN.)  Watch  me,  now.  "Ah,  ha,  Percy 
Leffingwell,  at  last  I  have  you  in  my  power."  (Rushes  across 
and  thrusts  sword  under  SPY'S  arm,  withdrawing  it  again.} 
Now  you  try  it. 

GEN.  (with  much  absurd  gestures}.  "Ah,  ha,  Percy  Lef- 
fingwell, at  last  I  have  you  in  my  power  !  " 

(Again  rushes  and  stabs  SPY.     SPY  staggers  a  moment,  then 
falls  on  his  face.} 

MAN.     Why  don't  you  die  right  ? 

SPY  (rising  slowly}.  Die  right?  Well,  how  should  I  know 
how  to  die  ?  I  never  died  before. 

MAN.  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  die  falling  on  his  stomach  ? 
I  suppose  I'll  have  to  show  you  how  to  die.  Watch  me,  now. 
(Puts  hand  to  head,  staggers,  groans  a  bit  and  falls  on  back 
with  a  flop,  then  sits  up}  Now,  that's  what  I  call  dying  right. 

SPY.     Well,  you  ought  to  know.     You're  a  dead  one  ! 

MAN.  {jumping  up}.  None  of  your  impudence  now.  You 
stick  to  your  part.  None  of  that.  I'll  throw  you  out  of  the 
company.  (To  GEN.)  Goon. 

GEN.     Shall  I  kill  him  again  ? 

MAN.     Yes,  kill  him  again  ! 

SPY.     Gee,  that  makes  three  times  already. 

MAN.     Never  mind,  go  on. 

GEN.  (crossing,  then  rushing  at  SPY,  saying},  "Ah,  ha, 
Percy  Leffingwell,  at  last  I  have  you  in  my  power." 

(Stabs  SPY.     SPY  imitates  MAN.  dying,  with  added  squirms 
and  twists  and  at  last  falls  near  left  wing ;  as  he  does 


42  THE   LAST   REHEARSAL 

so,  enter  ASH.  and  CARP.,  ASH.  walking  backwards  with 
barrel  of  papers,  etc.,  on  shoulder,  in  front  of  CARP.  The 
two  are  fighting.  ASH.  trips  backwards  over  prostrate 
form  of  SPY  and  CARP,  over  him.  The  barrel  of  rub- 
bish is  scattered.  MAN.  tears  hair  and  flies  about.  Gen- 
eral confusion  and) 


CURTAIN 


Rosie,  the  Girl  from  Paris 


CHARACTERS 

MR.  BLUNDER. 
Miss  ROSIE  BLUNDER. 
JOHN  CANDY,  a  strong  man. 
DUKE  DE  NUTTE,  from  France. 
LORD  DUNDREERY,  from  England. 
BARON  PUMPERNICKEL,  from  Germany. 
SIGNOR  ALIBAZAN, /r0/#  Italy. 
ROTTEN  TOMMY  1  , 

TOMMY  ROTTEN  \^SenSer  boyS. 

SCENE. — MR.  BLUNDER'S  parlor.  Writing-table,  L.  c. ;  chairs 
and  other  furnishings  of  a  well-to-do  home.  Entrances,  R., 
L.,  and  c. 

Enter  ROTTEN  TOMMY,  L.,  with  telegram  in  hand. 
ROTTEN  TOMMY.     I  guess  dis  is  de  jint. 

Enter  TOMMY  ROTTEN,  who,  seeing  the  other  messenger,  hur- 
ries up  after  him. 

TOMMY  ROTTEN.  Say,  wh'at  you  doin'  here,  anyway  ? 

ROTTEN  TOMMY.  Ah,  what's  it  to  you  ? 

TOMMY  ROTTEN.  Trying  to  dish  me  out,  ain't  ye? 

ROTTEN  TOMMY.  Say,  if  you  don't  look  out,  I'll  knock  de 
shingles  off  your  roof. 

TOMMY  ROTTEN.  Well,  why  don't  you  do  it? 

ROTTEN  TOMMY.  You  want  to  see  me,  eh  ? 

TOMMY  ROTTEN.  Come  on  and  try  it. 

(They  start  a  fight.') 
Enter  MR.  BLUNDER,  R. 

MR.   B.     Here !    here  !     Stop  that  fighting  in  my  house. 
(Boys  stop  and  run  hurriedly  to  him,  both  crying  out  "  Tele- 

43 


44  ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS 

gram  /     Telegram  !     Mister  /  "     MR.  B.  takes  the  telegrams.} 
Two  telegrams  !     My  !     I  wonder  what  this  means  ? 

(  Walks  to  centre  of  stage.} 

TOMMY  ROTTEN.     Fifteen  cents,  please. 

MR.  B.     Fifteen  cents  !     Where  does  it  say  fifteen  cents? 

(Looks  closely  at  the  telegram.} 

ROTTEN  TOMMY.     Right  dere.     (Points.} 
MR.  B.     It  looks  mighty  like  ten  cents  to  me. 
TOMMY  ROTTEN.     Can't  ye  see  de  coive  ? 
MR.  B.     The  curve? 

TOMMY  ROTTEN.     Ah,  he  can't  see  nothin* ;  he's  blind. 
MR.  B.     Here,  don't  you  talk  that  way  to  me,  young  man  ! 
I  won't  stand  impudence  from  any  boy  your  size. 

(Fidgets  in  vest  pocket  and  takes  out  fifteen  cents  and  pays 
TOMMY  ROTTEN,  who  starts  to  go.} 

ROTTEN  TOMMY.     Here,  where's  my  fifteen  cents? 
MR.  B.     I  gave  it  to  the  other  boy. 

(Points  to  TOMMY  ROTTEN,  who  is  walking  away.} 

ROTTEN  TOMMY  (rushing  after  TOMMY  ROTTEN,  grabs 
him,  calling  out}.  Give  me  my  fifteen  cents  ! 

(Another  scuffle  begins.} 

MR.  B.     Will  you  boys  stop  fighting  in  my  house?     Stop  it ! 
(Boys  stop,  stand  at  side  a  minute.} 

TOMMY  ROTTEN  (shouting}.  Ah,  what's  it  to  you,  you  old 
bloke  !  (Both  exeunt  hurriedly.} 

MR.  B.  Old  bloke  !  Why,  the  impudence  of  boys  in  these 
times  is  staggering.  Two  telegrams  !  (Opens one ;  whistles.) 
From  my  partners  !  (Reads.)  "  Come  down-town  within  fif- 
teen minutes;  we  can  make  fifty  thousand  dollars !"  My! 
there  must  be  some  big  deal  on.  What's  in  this  one?  (Opens 
second  telegram.)  Whew!  what's  this?  (Reads.}  "  Dear 
Popsy  Wopsy.  Just  arrived  at  the  pier  from  Paris.  Be  at  home 
when  I  come.  There  are  four  noblemen  following  me.  Lov- 


ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS  45 

ingly,  Rosey  Posey."  My  daughter  has  been  away  for  a  year 
and  comes  home  like  this.  Four  foreign  noblemen !  My 
gracious,  to  think  that  such  a  catastrophe  should  happen  to  me. 
I've  read  about  such  things  in  the  newspaper,  but  I  never 
thought  such  a  thing  would  come  into  my  own  home.  What 
am  1  going  to  do  ?  Here's  a  telegram  telling  me  to  come  down- 
town and  make  money,  and  here's  one  telling  me  to  stay  at 
home  !  I  have  an  idea  !  I'll  sit  down  and  write  a  note  telling 
my  daughter  I'll  be  home  at  once.  I'll  hurry  down-town  and 
perhaps  I'll  get  back  before  she  comes.  (Writes  at  tabled) 
"Dear  Rosey  Posey" — that's  the  name  I've  called  her  ever 
since  she  was  that  high  (holding  out  hand) — "urgent  business 
calls  me  away.  I  will  be  home  immediately."  Now  about 
those  noblemen.  I'll  put  it  down  so  strong  she  cannot  misun- 
derstand my  attitude  in  such  a  matter  as  this.  "  Don't  let  those 
foreign  noblemen  enter  my  house  !  (Pounds  on  table.}  I  want 
only  Americans  here  !  "  Ah  !  I  have  an  idea  !  {Continues 
writing.}  "  I  leave  you  a  check  for  ten  dollars  to  hire  a  strong 
man  to  put  them  out.  Yours,  Popsy  Wopsy."  That's  what 
she's  called  me  ever  since  I  was  so  high — I  mean,  she  was  so 
high  !  Now  for  the  check.  (  Writes  it,  rises  and  puts  on  hat.} 
I'll  go  out,  get  a  taxi,  and  hurry  back,  and  no  doubt  I'll  get 
here  before  she  arrives.  [Exit,  L. 

Enter  Miss  ROSIE  BLUNDER,  R. 

ROSIE  (calling  out}.  Oh,  papa!  Oh,  papa!  (Walks  to 
L.  and  calls,  to  back  c.  and  calls,  then  c.  front.}  I  wonder 
where  he  is  ?  The  same  dear  old  room,  just  as  I  left  it ;  noth- 
ing changed.  (Walks  to  table.}  What's  this?  A  note,  and 
for  me !  (Reads.}  "  Dear  Rosey  Posey  :  urgent  business  calls 
me  away.  I  will  return  immediately.  Don't  let  those  foreign 
noblemen  enter  my  house.  I  want  only  Americans  here.  I 
leave  you  a  check  for  ten  dollars  to  hire  a  strong  man  to  put 
them  out.  Yours,  Popsy  Wopsy."  Why,  I  saw  a  strong  man 
on  the  sidewalk  as  I  came  in.  (Runs  to  window.}  Oh,  there 
he  is.  Say,  mister  !  You,  come  here.  Yes,  you  ! 

(Awaits  his  coming.} 

Enter  JOHN  CANDY,   dressed  in  jersey,   with  muscles   well 
stuffed. 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 


46  ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS 

ROSIE.     What  is  your  name  ? 

JOHN.     John,  mum. 

ROSIE.     Would  you  like  to  earn  ten  dollars,  John? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

ROSIE.     Are  you  strong,  John  ? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

ROSIE.     Strong  enough  to  throw  out  four  men  ? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

ROSIE.  There  are  four  foreign  nobleman  following  me  here. 
If  any  of  them  gain  admission  and  come  near  me  I  want  you  to 
throw  him  out. 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

ROSIE.  Wait  for  my  signal.  I'll  call  "John  !  "  After  it's 
all  over,  I'll  give  you  the  ten  dollars. 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

ROSIE.     Sit  down  then,  John. 

VOICE  (outside}.     Is  Wosey  Posey  heah  ? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

Enter  LORD  DUNDREERY. 

LORD.  Oh,  Wosey !  Hi  'ave  weally  found  you  at  last. 
You  deah,  pwecious  girl !  Wosey,  I  love  you  with  all  my  'eart. 
Weally,  Wosey,  won't  you  be  mine? 

ROSIE.     John !     John ! 

JOHN  (tapping  LORD  on  shoulder).     Hey,  you're  crazy  ! 

LORD  (to  JOHN).  Don't  touch  me,  wretched  thing.  (To 
ROSIE.)  But  weally,  Wosey,  I  will  take  you  to  Lunnon,  and 
we  will  'ave  one  'igh  hold  time !  Hi'll  make  you  a  lady,  if 
you'll  only  be  mine. 

ROSIE.     Help,  John  !     Help  ! 

JOHN.     You're  crazy  !     Get  out  of  here.     {Clutches  htm.) 

LORD.  Unhand  me,  you  dirty  thing  !  The  king  shall  hear 
of  this  !  The  king  shall  hear  of  this  !  I'll  write  to  the  London 
Times. 

(JOHN  and  LORD  struggle.   Both  exeunt.     Noise  is  heard 
without.} 

ROSIE.  Oh!  (Scream.*)  Oh,  dear  !  I  have  almost  fain  ted. 
That  stupid  fop.  Why,  he  has  no  brains.  I  hope  John  didn't 
hurt  him.  {Enter  JOHN.)  Oh,  John,  what  did  you  do  to 
him? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum.     I  just  busted  his  head. 


ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS  47 

ROSIE.     Oh,  the  poor  man  !     John,  don't  hit  them  too  hard. 
JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

Enter  DUKE  DE  NUTTE. 

DUKE.  Ah,  R-Rosie !  Et  ees  avec  plaisir  zat  I  find  you 
here.  Ah,  R-Rosie  1  eef  you  savez  vous  zat  je  vous  adore  ? 

ROSIE.     John ! 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

DUKE.  How  much  I  love  you?  Ah,  R-Rosie,  I  haf  come 
from  ze  grand  Paree,  and  now  I  must  tell  you  zat  you  must  be 
mon  tresor,  mon  amour.  Ah,  R-Rosie,  I  will  take  you  to  ze 
land  of  ze  fun  all  ze  time  ! 

ROSIE.     Help,  John  ! 

JOHN.     Hey,  get  out !     You're  crazy  ! 

DUKE.  Away  1  R-Rosie,  you  can  make  me  so  happy — tres 
jolie. 

JOHN.     Get  out.     (Scuffle  and  struggle.) 

ROSIE.     Help,  John  ! 

DUKE.  R-Rosie,  vat  is  ze  matter  ?  I  love  you.  Leave  me. 
Sacre  bleu  !  I  will  fight  you  savat.  Help  ! 

(Both  exeunt  and  struggle.     Noise  without.) 

ROSIE.  Oh  !  (Scream.)  Out  at  last !  I'll  get  palpitation 
of  the  heart  soon.  My,  John  is  strong,  but  the  French  can 

kick  with  their  feet  and  their  tongues.  I  wonder (JOHN 

enters?)  Oh,  John,  what  did  you  do  to  him  ? 

JOHN.  Yes,  mum.  I  threw  him  so  far  he'll  starve  before 
he  gets  back  ! 

ROSIE.  Oh,  John  !  Don't  handle  them  so  roughly.  I  wish 
papa  would  come.  I  am  getting  so  nervous.  I  know  I  shall 
fain:  if  any  more  of  them 

Enter  BARON  PUMPERNICKEL. 

BARON.  Ach,  dere  you  are,  Rosie.  Veil,  I  can  say  it  for 
myself  dat  you  haf  played  me  no  goot.  I  treat  you  mit  my 
money,  and  mine  Gott  in  Himmel !  you  run  avay  from  me. 
Rosie,  a  Chorman  spends  no  money  for  noddings.  You  must 
come  back  to  Deutchland  and  I  vill  make  you  mine  frau.  Ah, 
you  can  haf  all  mine  sauerkraut  factories  und  all  mine  breweries. 

ROSIE.     Help,  John  ! 


48  ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum. 

BARON.  Vat's  that  ?  You  want  me  to  help  you  ?  Yes  ? 
Aber  Rosie,  Ich  Liebe  Dich.  Sure,  Mike,  I  do.  I  would  do 
any  think  for  you — more  for  your  money. 

JOHN.     Hey,  there. 

BARON.  Leaf  me  alone.  I  am  all  right.  Speak  it  out  to 
me,  Rosie.  Speak  it  to  my  face. 

ROSIE.     John,  help  ! 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum.     (Scuffle.*) 

BARON.  Ah,  Gott  !  I  am  murdered  !  Rosie,  come  mit 
me  und  help  me  !  Ach,  Rosie,  donner  vetter  ! 

(Both  exit.     Noise  outside.} 

ROSIE.  Oh  !  (Scream. )  Thank  goodness,  the  last  of  those 

noblemen  !  I  wonder  if  John (JOHN  enters.)  Oh,  John, 

what  did  you  do  to  him  ? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum.     I  busted  his  balloon. 

ROSIE.     Oh  !     (Scream.) 

SIGNOR  ALIBAZAN  (outside).  Ha,  ha  !  I  vills  finda  dotta 
gir-rl  1  (Enter  SIGNOR.)  Ha,  ha  !  ma  Rosa  !  (Draws  sword.) 
What  for  you  go  away  lika  dot  fon  Italic  ?  Ze  lands  from  a  de 
sunshine,  ze  vinyo  ?  Ah,  Rosa,  willa  not  you 

ROSIE.     John,  John  ! 

JOHN.     You're  crazy,  you  dago  ! 

SIGNOR.  Leave  me.  I  knifa  you  !  Look  out  for  da  blacka 
da  hand.  Ah !  Rosa,  listen  to  me.  You  musta  be  mine.  I 
steala  you.  (Brandishes  sword.) 

ROSIE.     Help,  John  !     Help  ! 

SIGNOR.  You  must  come  back  wis  Signer  Alibazan  !  I 
killa  every  man  who  try  to  stop  me  !  I  strikea  my  sword  into 
his  heart-t  !  Rosa,  I  am  on  fire  inside,  Rosa,  I 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum.     Watch  me  ! 

SIGNOR.  I  lova  you.  I  giva  you  alia  ma  mon.  (Scuffle.) 
I  maka  you — help  ! — maka  you  my  queen.  Ah,  Rosa  !  We 
eata  toget'  da  maccarone  and  da  spaghet  forev'.  Help  ! 

(Both  exit  and  struggle.     Noise  without.) 

ROSIE.  Oh  !  (Scream.)  Oh,  dear  !  They  are  bound  to 
tax  my  limit.  I  wonder  if  it  is  proper  to  faint  now  ?  Where's 
papa  ?  {Enter  JOHN.)  Oh,  John,  what  did  you  do  to  him  ? 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum.     I  half-killed  him. 


ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS  49 

ROSIE.  Oh  !  (Scream.}  John,  you  are  too  strong.  I  don't 
think  we  will  be  bothered  any  more,  for  I  am  sure 

Enter  MR.  B. 

MR.  B.  (embracing  her).  Oh,  Rosey  Posey  !  My  darling  ! 
My  precious  child  !  I'm  sorry  I  could  not  meet  you.  My, 
how  you  have  grown  !  I  can  hardly  believe  my  eyes  !  You 
are  the  picture  of  your  mother.  Oh,  Rosie,  if  I  could  only  tell 
you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  1  {Embraces  her?) 

JOHN  (tapping  MR.  B.  on  the  shoulder).    Hey,  you're  crazy  ! 

MR.  B.  What's  this  ?  Who  is  this  man  ?  A  stranger  in 
my  house? 

JOHN.     Get  out  o'  here  ! 

ROSIE.     Father,  he's 

MR.  B.  One  of  those  foreign  noblemen.  Leave  this  house 
at  once  !  I  want  only  Americans  here. 

JOHN.     Get  out,  then  !     That's  what  I'm  here  for. 

{Struggle  begins.) 

ROSIE.  John,  John !  Don't !  He's  all  right.  Father, 
listen.  I  must  explain. 

(Struggle  continues.} 

MR.  B.     All  foreigners  must  get  out. 

JOHN.     Get  out,  you're  crazy  ! 

ROSIE.  John  !  Help  !  Father  !  Papa  !  (Struggle  continues 
until  both  exit.  ROSIE  falls  in  chair  and  noise  is  heard  out- 
side. JOHN  enters.}  Oh!  Oh!  John!  What — have — you 
— done — to — him  ?  ( Cries. ) 

JOHN.     Yes,  mum.     I  killed  him. 

ROSIE.  Oh,  my  Popsy,  dead  !  Oh,  John,  you've  killed 
him  !  My  own  Popsy  Wopsy  killed  !  Oh  !  What  shall  I  do  ? 
What  shall  I  do  ?  Oh  I  ( Cries.) 

JOHN.     Was  that  your  father,  Rosie  ? 

ROSIE.  Yes,  you  horrid  thing  !  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

JOHN.     I'll  be  a  father  to  you,  Rosie.     I'll  take  his  place. 

(Noise  outside.     Enter  MR.  B.  and  the  four  noblemen,  one 
behind  the  other,  with  clothes  in  rags.) 

MR.  B.   (calling  out).     That's  him,  the  rogue,  the  villain  ! 


5O  ROSIE,    THE    GIRL    FROM    PARIS 

(JOHN  walks  up  to  the  line,  gives  a  slight  push,  all  fall  in  a 
heap.} 

ROSIE.     John  !    Oh  !    Oh  I    Oh  !    John  ! 
JOHN.     Rosie,  will  you  marry  me  ? 

(RosiE  screams  ;  JOHN  follows  her  around  the  stage.     Gen- 
eral confusion.} 


CURTAIN 


The  Teacher's  Pet 


CHARACTERS 

MR.  NOODLE,  the  country  school  teacher. 

PERCIVAL  PRIM,  the  pet. 

OPHELIA  HEAD,  "j 

LUKE  SMALL, 

MARK  UPP,         >  school  children. 

MAY  SINK, 

WILLIE  SMELL,    J 

More  school  children  if  desired. 

SCENE. — A  schoolroom,  maps,  blackboard,  etc.  Door,  L. ; 
teacher*  s  desk,  R.,  so  that  teacher  faces  L.  Pupils'  desks  so 
that  they  face  R. 

( Curtain  rises  on  an  empty  schoolroom  ;  noise  outside  as  of 
children  at  play.) 

Enter  MARK  UPP  and  WILLIE  SMELL,  R.,  cautiously. 

MARK.     Gee,  Willie,  where  does  he  keep  the  questions? 

WILLIE.     I  think  he  stuck  them  in  the  rith-me-tick  book. 

MARK.     Right-o  !     Here  dey  is. 

WILLIE  (snatching  paper  from  MARK).  Give  them  to  us. 
(Reads.}  Two  times  four  equals  eight,  two  times  six  equals 
twelve.  What  is  a  Pencil-colia  ? 

MARK.  Say,  Willie,  dat  word  ain't  Pencil-colia;  it's  pro- 
nounced Peninsula. 

WILLIE.     Beat  it,  Mark;  here  comes  " Goggles "  hisself. 

\Exeunty  R. 

Enter  MR.  NOODLE,  L.  ;  walks  to  desk,  L. 

MR.  N.  My,  but  I'm  getting  old;  no  one  knows  it  better 
than  I.  I  remember  the  time  I  could  see  the  boys  coming  to 
school  for  miles  and  miles,  and  now  I  can  hardly  see  what  time 
to  ring  the  bell  for  school.  Rheumatism  has  gotten  me  by  the 

51 


52 

legs  and  it's  about  all  I  can  do  to  crawl  around,  let  alone  dress 
myself.  (  Calls  off  R.)  Mark  Upp  1  Mark  Upp  ! 

MARK  (off  stage).     What,  teacher? 

MR.  N.  Come  here,  Mark.  {Enter  MARK,  R.,  slowly. 
Mark,  my  lad,  what  time  is  it  ? 

MARK.     Three  minutes  past  nine,  teacher. 

MR.  N.  Ring  the  bell,  Mark,  for  school.  (MR.  N.  at  desk. 
MARK  takes  bell,  goes  to  door,  R.,  and  rings  bell.  Noise  out- 
side ceases.)  Willie  Smell,  stop  running  when  you  hear  the 
bell.  Forward,  march.  {Enter  the  children,  all  but  PERCIVAL 
and  LUKE,  the  teacher  calling  out:  "Left,  right,  left,  right, 
left, ' '  until  they  are  seated,  with  clatter  of  books,  etc.  MR.  N. 
takes  place  at  desk.)  Good-morning,  children. 

ALL.     Good-morning,  teacher. 

MR.  N.     Attention  to  roll  call.     Ophelia  Head. 

OPHELIA  HEAD.     Present. 

MR.  N.     Willie  Smell. 

WILLIE.     Here. 

MR.  N.     Mark  Upp. 

MARK.     I'm  here,  teacher. 

MR.  N.     May  Sink. 

MAY  SINK.     Yes,  sir. 

MR.  N.  Luke  Small.  I  wonder  where  that  boy  is  this 
morning  ?  Percival  Prim.  (  Groans  and  noises  from  the  class.) 
Order  here  !  Percival,  no  doubt,  has  to  help  his  mother  this 
morning.  {More  groans. )  Order !  {Enter  LUKE  SMALL, 
who  tries  to  sneak  to  his  seat,  but  MR.  N.  sees  him.)  Luke 
Small  !  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  late  to  school  ?  Come 
up  here  in  front  of  the  class. 

LUKE.     Teacher,  I 

MR.  N.  Don't  you  talk  back  to  me,  sir;  step  out  in  front  ! 
(LuKE  hesitates, .)  Come  here  to  me. 

(LuKE  comes  in  front  of  desk.) 

LUKE.     Teacher,  I  couldn't 

MR.  N.     I  told  you  not  to  talk  to  me.     Hold  out  your  hand. 

LUKE.     Teacher,  I 

MR.  N.  Hold  out  your  hand.  (LuKE  holds  out  hand,  which 
MR.  N.  places  on  his  left,  and  with  right,  takes  ruler  and  sir  ikes. 
LUKE  quickly  pulls  hand  away  and  MR.  N.  strikes  his  own  left 
hand.  He  dances  about  with  pain  and  LUKE  takes  advantage 
of  this  to  recover  his  seat.  Class  laughs.  MR.  N.  gradually 


THE  TEACHER'S  PET  53 

recovers  his  dignity,   and  glaring  at  LUKE,  picks  up  a  book.} 
We  will  first  have  our  arithmetic  lesson. 

(General  confusion  of  opening  books  during  which  PERCIVAL 
PRIM  enters  with  a  large  bunch  of  flowers.  He  walks  up 
to  MR.  N.'s  desk  amid  sour  faces  and  suppressed  cries  of 
"  Sucker  !  Pet  /  "  etc.,  from  the  class,  and  the  smiles  of 
MR.  N.) 

PERCIVAL.  Teacher,  I'm  sorry  I  was  late,  but  I  pricked  my 
finger  on  a  thorn  while  I  was  picking  those  for  you,  and  my 
mother  had  to  bandage  it  up,  so  I  could  not  get  here  on  time. 

Mi*.  N.  Oh  !  I'm  so  sorry,  Percival,  that  you  were  hurt. 
I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious.  Thank  you  for  the  lovely  flowers. 

WILLIE.     Sucker ! 

MAY.     Teacher's  pet  ! 

(LUKE  throws  a  spitball,  which  hits  PERCIVAL  on  the  back 
of  the  head.} 

MR.  N.     Order  !     Order  ! 

PERCIVAL.     Teacher,  some  one  hit  me  with  a  spitball. 

MR.  N.  Who  hit  this  child  with  a  spitball?  (Pause.} 
Who  did  it,  I  say  ? 

PERCIVAL.     I  think  it  was  Willie  Smell. 

MR.  N.  Willie  Smell,  I  shall  send  a  note  home  to  your 
mother  to-night. 

WILLIE.     I  didn't  do  it,  teacher. 

MR.  N.  You  did.  Don't  answer  me.  Percival,  you  may 
take  your  seat  now.  (Cries  of  "Sucker  /"  etc.,  silenced  by 
MR.  N.)  Ophelia  Head 

PERCIVAL  (crying}.     Teacher,  the  boys  called  me  sucker. 

MR.  N.  If  I  catch  any  of  you  bothering  him  again  I  will 
certainly  punish  you.  Percival  is  the  only  good  boy  in  the 
room. 

LUKE.     Sucker  !     (Pulls  PERCIVAL' s  hair.} 

MR.'N.  Now  we  will  have  a  geography  lesson.  Ophelia, 
where  is  Timbuctoo  ? 

OPHELIA.     Arizona. 

MR.  N.  Why,  Ophelia  !  Mark,  you  tell  us  where  Tim- 
buctoo is. 

MARK.  Timbuctoo  is  in,  ah,  um — well — Timbuctoo  is 
in Gee,  I  don't  know. 

MR.  N.     Take  your  seat,  Mark. 

PERCIVAL.     Teacher,  Luke  Small  pinched  me. 


54  THE  TEACHER'S  PET 

MR.  N.  You  go  right  home  now,  Luke  Small,  and  tell  your 
mother  I  sent  you  home.  Go  right  along.  {Exit  LUKE,  with 
menacing  looks.)  May  Sink,  where  is  Timbuctoo? 

MAY.     Search  me. 

MR.  N.  This  is  awful.  Percival,  you  tell  us  where  Tim- 
buctoo is. 

PERCIVAL.     Timbuctoo  is  in  Africa. 

MR.  N.     That  is  right.     Go  to  the  head  of  the  class. 

BOYS.     Sucker ! 

MR.  N.     Who  threw  that  spitball  at  me  ? 

BOYS.     Percival  did  it. 

MR.  N.  Percival  did  it  ?  Well,  I  will  excuse  Percival.  It 
is  the  first  time  he  ever  hit  me. 

PERCIVAL.     I  didn't  throw  it,  teacher. 

ALL.     He  did  !     He  did  ! 

MR.  N.     Boys,  Percival  says  he  didn't. 

BOYS.     Sucker  !     Sucker  !     Teacher's  pet ! 

MR.  N.  Order !  We  will  have  a  spelling  lesson  now. 
Willie,  you  spell  Constantinople. 

WILLIE.     Kon-stan-apple 

MR.  N.     May,  you  spell  it. 

MAY.     I  spell  it  like  Willie  spells  it. 

MR.  N.     Can  any  one  spell  Constantinople  ? 

PERCIVAL.     I  can — C-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-i-n-o-p-l-e. 

MR.  N.  Percival,  you  are  such  a  comfort.  You  always 
know  your  lesson.  (Here  all  the  boys  jump  on  PERCIVAL  and 
MR.  ^.finally  catches  them  and  puts  them  back  in  their  seats.*) 
For  our  arithmetic  lesson  I  shall  give  a  very  easy  example.  For 

instance,  Luke (LuKE  stands.)  Now,  Luke,  if  I  give 

May  Sink  ten  apples  and  she  is  to  give  you  one  back  every  day, 
how  many  apples  should  you  have  at  the  end  of  six  days  ? 

LUKE.     None. 

MR.  N.     Luke,  you  don't  know  the  example. 

LUKE.     Teacher,  you  don't  know  May  Sink. 

MR.  N.  Percival,  you  tell  Luke  how  many  he  should 
receive. 

PERCIVAL.     He  should  receive  six  apples,  teacher. 

MR.  N.  You  children  should  benefit  by  Percival's  knowledge. 
How  many  of  you  can  subtract  two  from  twelve  ?  May,  you 
do  it.  How  much  is  twelve  minus  two  ? 

MAY.     Twelve  minus  two  leaves  one. 

MR.  N.     Take  your  seat.     Mark,  can  you  tell  me  the  answer  ? 

MARK.     Two  and  five-sixths. 


THE    TEACHER  S    PET  55 

MR.  N.     Percival,  I  must  ask  you. 

PERCIVAL.     Ten. 

MR.  N.  Correct.  May  Sink,  take  that  gum  out  of  your 
mouth  and  throw  it  away. 

MAY.  I  can't,  teacher,  it  doesn't  belong  to  me — it's  my 
mother's. 

(PERCIVAL  raises  hand.) 

MR.  N.     Yes,  Percival. 

PERCIVAL.     My  mother  told  me  it  was  rude  to  chew  gum. 

(Cries  again.) 

MR.  N.  Well,  my  dear  children,  our  lessons  for  to-day  were 
not  any  too  brilliant,  but  what  can  one  expect  from  a  class  so 
young  and  thinly  populated,  especially  on  the  last  day  of  school  ? 

ALL.     Hurrah !     Hurray ! 

MR.  N.  Order,  children.  Of  course,  you  all  know  that  this 
being  our  last  day  together  until  the  beginning  of  the  next 
semester,  we  generally  have  a  few  singing  exercises  before  we 
depart  for  our  homes.  I  hope,  nevertheless,  children,  to  be 
with  you  again  next  semester. 

OPHELIA.  Say,  teacher,  who's  this  seamstress  you're  talking 
about  ? 

MR.  N.  Why,  Ophelia,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never 
heard  that  word  before  ?  Willie,  will  you  explain  the  meaning 
of  the  word  semester  to  Ophelia  ? 

WILLIE.  She  is  a  lady  what  comes  around  to  houses  with  a 
darning  needle  and  sews  up  old  holes  in  stockings. 

PERCIVAL.     Willie  is  mistaken,  teacher. 

WILLIE.  I  ain't,  neither;  guess  I  know  what  my  mother  is. 
She  sews  my  neckties;  don't  I  know? 

MR.  N.  Percival  is  correct,  Willie,  your  mother  is  a  seam- 
stress, not  a  semester.  A  semester  is  a  term  at  school,  which 
in  this  school  comes  once  every  six  months.  And  this  being 
the  last  day  of  school,  it  is  also  the  last  day  of  this  semester. 
Now,  children,  since  I  have  made  everything  clear,  we  shall 
end  this  happy  semester  by  singing. 

ALL.     Hurrah  for  the  end  of  the  hemisphere  ! 

MR.  N.  Order  !  We  will  now  sing  "America.11  (C/ass 
stand.  All  stand  more  or  less  awkwardly.)  Percival,  give 
us  the  note.  (PERCIVAL  strikes  high  note.  Cat  calls,  etc.) 
Silence  !  Now,  all  together  !  (All  sing  a  verse  of  "  America  " 
very  much  out  of  unison,  etc.)  That  will  be  all  to-day.  You 


56  THE  TEACHER'S  PET 

may  take  your  books  now  and  go  home.     (Suppressed  cries  of 
"  Teacher's  pet !     Wait  till  we  get  you  "  etc.}     Percival,  you 
may  remain  for  a  while  after  school. 
PERCIVAL.     Yes,  teacher. 

{Exeunt  all  but  MR.  N.  and  PERCIVAL,  with  sidelong  looks.} 

MR.  N.  Here,  Percival,  is  a  nice  book  for  you  to  read. 
{Gives  PERCIVAL  a  large  encyclopedia  volume}  It  has  lots  of 
nice  pictures  in  it. 

PERCIVAL.     Yes,  teacher,  my  mother  likes  me  to  read. 

MR.  N.  Has  your  mother  been  making  any  more  of  those 
nice  cakes  lately  ? 

PERCIVAL.  Yes,  teacher,  she  wants  you  to  come  to  our 
house  for  dinner  to-night. 

MR.  N.  Oh  !  Thank  you  very  much  !  Tell  your  mother 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  come. 

PERCIVAL.     Yes,  sir. 

MR.  N.     And  when  I  come  I'll  help  you  with  your  lessons. 

PERCIVAL.     Yes,  sir. 

MR.  N.  I  guess  all  of  those  boys  have  gone  now.  (Rises, 
goes  to  door  and  looks  out.}  Mark  Upp  !  What  are  you 
doing  there  ?  You  go  right  home.  Don't  be  staying  about 
here.  Get  along.  I  see  you  behind  that  tree,  Luke  Small. 
You  go  home  to  your  mother  as  I  told  you.  (Pause.  Turns 
around.)  Now  they  are  all  gone,  Percival,  you  may  go. 

PERCIVAL.     Good-night,  teacher. 

MR.  N.  Good-night,  Percival,  dear.  (Exit  PERCIVAL.) 
Good-night. 

PERCIVAL  (without}.     Good-night. 

(MR.  N.  looks  after  PERCIVAL  a  moment,  then  closes  door 
and  walks  over  to  desk,  sits  down  and  picks  up  a  book. 
Suddenly  there  is  a  terrible  noise  outside.  The  door  flies 
open,  PERCIVAL  comes  running  in  with  clothing  torn,  his 
eyes  blacked,  and  after  him  all  the  children  shouting  and 
calling  wildly.  MR.  N.  rushes  about  the  stage.  General 
confusion.} 


CURTAIN 


Lost  but  Found 


CHARACTERS 

B.  GUNK,  the  superintendent. 

PETER,  the  cop. 

MR.  HANK  SMITHERS. 

HYMIE  LOST. 

His  MOTHER. 

LITTLE  JENKINS. 

BIG  JENKINS,  his  father. 

SAM  SMITHERS. 

SCENE. — The  office  of  the  Home  for  Lost  Boys. 

(B.  GUNK  seated  at  table  writing,  with  large  speaking 
trumpet  on  table  at  hand.  Enter  PETER.  Walks  up  to 
GUNK,  salutes.  GUNK  does  not  see  him.  Salutes  again. 
Same.  Salutes  again.) 

PETER.     Ahem  ! 

GUNK.     Eh  ?     (Looks  up  and  puts  trumpet  to  ear.) 

PETER.     I  said,  "Ahem  !  " 

GUNK.     What's  that  ?     Are  you  swearing  at  me  ? 

PETER.     No,  I  never  swore  in  all  my  life. 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

PETER.     I  said,  "No." 

GUNK.     Well,  who  are  you  anyhow? 

PETER.     I'm  the  new  officer  the  chief  sent  up  here. 

GUNK.  Oh  !  you're  the  new  officer,  are  you  ?  I  suppose 
you  know  all  about  this  place. 

PETER.     No  old  beanhead  like  you  can  tell  me  anything  ! 

GUNK.     Eh  ?     What's  that  you  said  ? 

PETER.     I  said  I  know  all  about  it. 

GUNK.  Well,  you  see  this  is  a  home  for  lost  boys.  We 
pick  up  these  poor  homeless  waifs  about  the  streets  and  find  a 
home  for  them  in  some  good  family. 

PETER.     Yes. 

57 


58  LOST    BUT    FOUND 

GUNK.  Eh  ? 

PETER.     Yes. 

GUNK.  Eh  ? 

PETER.     YES  ! 

GUNK.  Oh,  yes.  Well,  officer,  what's  your  name,  any- 
how? 

PETER.     Peter. 

GUNK.  Peter  ?  That's  a  funny  name  for  an  officer  !  Yes  1 — 

Well,  Peter 

Enter  MR.  HANK  SMITHERS,  from  R. 

MR.  S.  (to  PETER).     Are  you  the  manager  of  this  concern  ? 

PETER.     No,  the  bean  head  is. 

MR.  S.  Oh!  Mr.  Beanhead.  (To  GUNK.)  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Beanhead? 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

MR.  S.     I  said,  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Beanhead  ?" 

GUNK.  What's  that  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  me 
Mr.  Beanhead  ?  My  name  is  not  Mr.  Beanhead ;  my  name  is 
Mr.  Gunk,  G-U-N-K,  Gunk  ! 

MR.  S.  Oh  !  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Skunk — a  slight  mistake  on 
my  part. 

GUNK.  Eh  ?  Gol-darn  you  anyhow  !  What  do  you  mean 
by  calling  me  Mr.  Skunk  ?  My  name  is  Gunk,  not  Skunk  ! 

MR.  S.  Oh  !  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Gunk.  A  slight  mistake. 
No  harm  done,  1  hope  ? 

GUNK.     No!    No! 

MR.  S.  Well,  I  want  a  boy.  You  see,  my  son  Samuel  was 
a  very  naughty  boy,  and  so  I  had  to  send  him  to  the  Reform 
School. 

GUNK.     Oh  !     Yes  !     You  say  you  had  a  deformed  boy  ? 

MR.  S.  No  !  No  !  I  said  I  sent  my  boy  to  the  Reform 
School. 

GUNK.     Oh,  the  Reform  School. 

MR.  S.  Yes  I  I  sent  my  boy  to  the  Reform  School,  and 
now  I  want  to  get  another  boy  to  take  his  place  on  the  farm. 

GUNK.  Oh  !  Yes  !  Well,  if  you  will  just  give  me  your 
name  and  address,  I  think  I'll  be  able  to  fix  you  up  all  right. 

MR.  S.     My  name  is  Smithers. 

GUNK.     Oh  !     Yes !     Mr.  Smythers. 

MR.  S.     No  !     Mr.  Smithers. 

GUNK  {going  over  to  table).     Oh  !     Yes  !     Mr.  Slivers. 


LOST    BUT    FOUND  59 

MR.  S.     No  !     No !     Mr.  Smithers. 

GUNK.     Well,  just  spell  it  slowly,  Mr.  Splinters,  one  letter  at 
a  time,  and  maybe  I  can  get  it. 


1YJLK.     O. 

GUNK. 
MR.  S. 
GUNK. 

MR.  S. 
GUNK. 

MR.  S. 
GUNK. 
Stand  aside 
MR.  S. 
GUNK. 
MR.  S. 
GUNK. 
MR.  S. 
GUNK. 

Yes. 
No!     Not  yes—  "S." 
Oh,  yes!     "S." 

shoulder.*) 

T 

i 

I  (PETER  looks  over  his 
\ 

T 

Eh? 
No,  not  "A"—  "T." 
Oh! 
Not  "O"—  "T." 
Oh,  "T." 

Peter ! 


MR.  S.  (to  PETER).  Say,  Peter,  what's  the  matter  with  this 
fellow  anyhow? 

PETER.     Oh,  he's  got  a  bean  in  his  ear. 

GUNK.     Peter,  did  you  say  something  about  me  ? 

PETER.     I  said  you  were  a  little  hard  of  hearing. 

GUNK  (to  MR.  S.).  Oh,  Peter  told  you  I  was  a  little  hard 
of  hearing.  (To  PETER.)  Thank  you,  Peter,  for  telling  him. 

MR.  S.  Yes,  thank  you,  Peter,  for  telling  me.  I'd  never 
know  it  if  you  hadn't  said  so.  (To  GUNK.)  Say,  do  you 
read  as  well  as  you  hear  ? 

GUNK.     Yes,  I  think  I  do. 

MR.  S.     Well,  then,  let  me  write  it  for  you.     (  Writes  name.) 

GUNK.  All  right,  Mr.  Slivers,  I  guess  we  can  fix  you  up  all 
right.  Now,  what  hotel  are  you  stopping  at  ? 

MR.  S.  I  am  stopping  at  the  Fairmount,  but  I  take  my 
meals  at  the  Eureka  Chop  House.  There's  nothing  too  good 
for  -your  uncle.  You  can  call  me  up  at  the  hotel. 

GUNK.  Well,  Mr.  Smythers,  I  think  we're  liable  to  get  you 
a  boy  'most  any  time  now.  Yes  ! 

MR.  S.     Well,  good-day  ! 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

MR.  S.     I  said,  "Good-day!"  [Exit. 

GUNK.     Eh  ?     Peter  !     What  did  he  say  ? 

PETER.     He  said,  "  Good-day  !  " 

GUNK.    Good-day,  sir  !    Good-day  ! — Peter  !    Peter  !    Come 


6O  LOST    BUT    FOUND 

over  here,  Peter  !  Say,  Peter,  where  did  you  work  before  you 
came  here  ? 

PETER.     Down  at  the  pound. 

GUNK.     Well,  why  didn't  you  stay  there,  Peter? 

PETER.     The  dogs  liked  me  too  much. 

GUNK.     How's  that  ? 

PETER.     They  were  stuck  on  me  all  the  time. 

GUNK.  Well,  Peter (Sound  of  boy  crying  lustily.} 

Eh!  What's  that? 

Enter  HYMIE  LOST,  crying. 

H.  L.     I'm  lost ! 

GUNK.     What's  that  ? 

H.  L.     I'm  lost  ! 

GUNK.  Eh  ?  Peter  !  What's  that  he  said  ?  I  can't  make 
out  a  word  he  says. 

PETER.     He  said  he's  lost. 

GUNK.  Oh  !  Yes  !  So  you're  lost !  Well,  well !— Peter, 
find  out  his  name.  (Goes  to  table  to  write.) 

PETER.     What's  your  name,  little  boy? 

H.  L.     I'm  Lost. 

PETER.     I  know  you're  lost,  but  what's  your  name? 

H.  L.     I'm  Lost. 

PETER.  I  know  you're  lost  (yelling)  but  what's  your  name, 
name,  name? 

H.  L.     I'm  Lost !      Boo-hoo  ! 

PETER  (in  despair).     Hymie  Lost. 

GUNK  (writing).  Oh,  yes !  Hymie  Lost.  Peter!  Find 
out  where  he  lives. 

PETER.     Where  do  you  live,  boy  ? 

H.  L.     I'm  lost ! 

PETER.     Now,  I  know  you're  lost,  but  where  do  you  live  ? 

H.  L.     Oh  !     I'm  lost ! 

PETER  (angrily).  I  know  you're  lost,  but  where  do  you 
live — live — live  ? 

H.  L.     I'm  lost ! 

PETER  (disgustedly).     No.  9  Moss  Street. 

GUNK.     Oh,  yes  !     No.  909  Law  Street. 

PETER.     No  !     No.  9  Moss  Street. 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

PETER  (aside).     Oh,  well !     It's  all  the  same,  anyhow. 

GUNK.  Oh,  yes.  Now,  Peter,  you  go  and  get  Mr.  Slivers, 
and  I'll  take  care  of  the  boy.  (Exit  PETER.)  Now,  come  over 


LOST    BUT    FOUND  6 1 

here,  little  boy !  (H.  L.  is  scared.)  There  !  Nice  little  boy  ! 
No  one  will  hurt  you.  {Leads  shivering  little  boy  to  settee, 
where  boy  sits  at  ease.)  Well,  he  certainly  takes  it  easy,  that 
boy  does!  (To  audience.)  I  don't  understand  a  word  that 
boy  says.  I  don't  think  any  one  else  does.  No ! 

Enter  H.  L.'s  MOTHER.     Rushes  direct  to  GUNK  without  see- 
ing boy,  talking  very  fast. 

H.  L.'s  M.  My  child  !  I've  lost  my  child.  I  was  walking 
down  the  street  and  I  lost  him.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  an 
hour.  I've  been  looking  all  over  and  I  can't  find  him.  I 

GUNK.     Here  !     Here  !     Here  !     What's  this,  madam  ? 

H.  L.'s  M.  (still  talking  very  fast).  I  tell  you  I've  lost  my 
boy ;  I  was  walking  down  the  street  and  I  lost  him.  I  haven't 
seen  him  for  an  hour,  and 

GUNK.  Here !  Here !  Here !  One  word  at  a  time, 
please.  Now,  what  did  you  say  ? 

H.  L.'s  M.     I  tell  you  I've  lost  my  little  boy. 

GUNK.  Oh,  well,  why  didn't  you  say  so,  then  ?  So  you 
lost  your  little  boy  !  H-m-m !  Well!  (To  audience.')  She 
lost  her  little  boy  !  Well ! 

(H.  L.  begins  to  cry  again  ;  his  mother  discovers  him,  rushes 
to  him,  catches  him  in  arms,  and  off.) 

H.  L.'sM.     My  child! 

H.  L.     Mamma,  mamma,  mamma  !  [Exit. 

GUNK.  Here !  Here !  Here !  What  does  this  mean  ? 
(Enter  PETER  and  MR.  S.  PETER  bumps  into  GUNK.)  Here  ! 
Here !  Here  ! 

MR.  S.     Howd'  ye  do? 

GUNK.     Eh? 

MR.  S.     I  said  how  d*  ye  do  ? 

GUNK.     Well !     How  d'  ye  do  ? 

MR.  S.  I'm  doing  pretty  well  for  a  young  man.  How  are 
you  feeling? 

GUNK.     Pretty  well. 

MR.  S.     Well,  have  you  got  my  boy  ? 

GUNK.     Your  boy  ? 

MR.  S.     Yes,  my  boy. 

GUNK.  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  disappoint 
you  about  that  boy.  Yes  !  You  see  I  had  a  good  boy,  but 


62  LOST    BUT    FOUND 

just  as  you  were  coming  in  the  boy's  mother  came  in  and  took 
him  away,  so  I  couldn't  give  you  that  boy  very  well.  No  ! 

MR.  S.     No  !     I  suppose  not.     Not  very  well.     No  !     No ! 

GUNK.     No !     No ! 

MR.  S.  Say,  that's  a  good  story.  Where  did  you  read 
that? 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

MR.  S.     I  say  that's  a  good  story.     Where  did  you  read  it  ? 

GUNK.     I  don't  understand  you  ! 

MR.  S.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  brought  up  here  for  noth- 
ing like  this  ! 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

MR.  S.     Good-day,  sir  ! 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

MR.  S.    (going}.     Good-day!  [Exit. 

GUNK  (listening').  Peter  !  Come  here  ! — Peter  !  What 
did  he  say  ? 

PETER.     He  said  good-day. 

GUNK.     Was  that  all  he  said? 

PETER.     Yes  ! 

GUNK.  Well!  Go  tell  him  good-day.  (PETER  goes  to 
door.}  Peter,  what  are  you  doing? 

PETER.     Telling  him  good-day. 

GUNK.  Well,  you  don't  have  to  go  outside  to  do  it.  Peter, 
we've  got  to  get  a  good  boy  for  that  man.  Yes  ! 

PETER.     Yes ! 

GUNK.     What's  that,  Peter  ? 

PETER.     I  said  yes! 

GUNK.  Oh !  Yes !  (Enter  LITTLE  JENKINS,  crying.) 
Did  I  hear  a  noise? 

LITTLE  J.     My  father  licked  me. 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

LITTLE  J.     My  father  licked  me  ! 

GUNK.     Peter  !     What  did  he  say? 

PETER.     He  said  his  father  licked  him. 

GUNK.     Eh? 

PETER  (shouting}.     He  said  his  father  licked  him. 

GUNK.     Oh  !     His  father  kicked  him. 

PETER.  No  !  His  father  licked  him,  beat  him,  spanked 
him,  trounced  him  ! 

GUNK.  Oh  !  His  father  licked  him  !  Well,  boy,  you  must 
have  a  cruel  father  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that.  Peter,  I've  got 
an  idea  !  I'll  run  out  and  telephone  Mr.  Splinters  right  away, 


LOST    BUT   FOUND  63 

and  you  take  care  of  the  boy.  Treat  him  gently,  Peter — 
gently !  [Exit. 

PETER.     Come  on,  get  over  here  now  !     (Cuffs  the  boy.} 

LITTLE  J.  You  better  leave  me  alone.  My  father1!!  fix 
you. 

PETER.     How  big's  your  father? 

LITTLE  J.     My  father's  that  big  ! 

(Indicates  a  very  small  man.*) 

PETER.  What!  That  big?  (Stoops.)  Why,  I  could  twist 
him  around  my  little  finger. 

LITTLE  J.     He's  got  big  muscles,  like  that ! 

(Both  show  their  muscles.) 
Enter  BIG  JENKINS  and  GuxK/rom  opposite  sides  of  the  stage. 

BIG  J.  Johnnie,  what  are  you  doing  here?  (LITTLE  J. 
cries.)  You  go  right  home  and  wait  in  the  wood-shed  for  me. 

[Exit  LITTLE  J.,  crying. 

GUNK.  Here  !  Here  !  Come  back  here,  boy  I  Peter,  get 
the  boy  !  (GuNK  runs  after  boy.  BIG  J.  shoves  GUNK,  then 
PETER  to  one  side)  Peter  !  Put  that  man  out ! 

PETER  (backing  away).  Come  on,  now,  you  get  out  of 
here! 

BIG  J.     What  did  you  say  ? 

PETER  (approaching  easily).     Get  out  of  here  ! 

(BiG  J.  throws  PETER  to  the  floor  and  beats  him.  PETER 
halloas  "Help  /"  "  Murder  /  "  "  Oh,  my  eye  !  "  etc.) 

GUNK.     Here!     Here!     Here! 

(Approaching  and  standing  over  them,  BIG  J.  swings  on 
GUNK,  knocks  him  down  and  exit.  GUNK  gets  up  slowly 
and  begins  lifting  one  leg  and  stretching  it  out  and  feeling 
himself.) 

Enter  MR.  S. 

MR.  S.  I  wonder  if  I'm  in  the  right  house  ?  It  looks  like  a 
dancing  school  to  me.  Yes,  I  guess  I'm  in  the  right  house,  all 
right.  How  d'  ye  do? 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

MR.  S.     I  said  how  d'  ye  do? 

GUNK.     Not  very  well  just  now  ! 


64  LOST    BUT    FOUND 

MR.  S.     Well,  have  you  got  my  boy  ? 

GUNK.     Your  boy  ? 

MR.  S.     Yes,  my  boy. 

GUNK.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  disappoint  you  again.  It  was 
all  a  mistake  about  that  boy.  Yes  !  All  a  mistake.  I  haven't 
any  boy  for  you. 

MR.  S.     No,  I  suppose  you  never  telephoned,  either? 

GUNK.     No,  it  was  all  Peter's  fault — all  a  mistake. 

MR.  S.  Well,  I  can  find  some  excuse  for  a  poor  young  man 
like  Peter,  but  for  an  old  man  like  you  there's  no  excuse.  Well, 
how  many  times  are  you  going  to  fool  me  up  here  anyhow  ? 

GUNK.     Well,  I  couldn't  tell  you  that,  no  ! 

MR.  S.  Well,  I  want  that  boy  !  I've  got  to  get  back  to  my 
pigs  on  the  farm. 

GUNK.     Oh  !     So  you  have  pigs  in  your  family  ? 

MR.  S.  Yes  !  I  mean,  no  !  No  /  I  have  them  on  my 
farm,  not  in  my  family.  I  said  I  had  to  get  back  to  take  care 
of  my  pigs. 

GUNK.  Oh  !  I  thought  you  said  you  had  pigs  in  your 
family  !  Good  joke  that,  yes  ! 

MR.  S.  Yes !  Well,  what  kind  of  a  story  is  this  you're 
giving  me  ?  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  all  these  fairy  stories  ? 

GUNK.  Well,  I  ain't  tellin'  you  any  stories.  No!  And 
you  don't  need  to  start  anything  with  me,  no ! 

MR.  S.  Well,  don't  start  anything  with  me,  either;  not 
while  I  have  my  trusty  cane  along. 

GUNK.  Even  if  I  am  an  old  man,  you  can't  fool  with  me. 
No  !  I  won't  stand  for  it.  No  !  {Spits  on  his  hands.} 

MR.  S.  (aside).  Guess  I'd  better  get !  He's  getting  an- 
other one  1  \_Exit. 

GUNK.  I've  got  a  good  notion  to  swing  on  you  right  now, 
and  I  think  I'll  do  it.  (Swings  around  blindly  and  almost  hits 
PETER.)  Excuse  me,  Peter  !  Excuse  me  !  Peter,  come  here  ! 
(PETER  comes  half  afraid,  and  keeps  watching  GUNK'S  hand  as 
he  gesticulates.}  Peter,  we've  got  to  get  a  boy  for  that  man  ! 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  You  go  and  see  if  we  can  find  some 
poor  little  lost  boy  walking  about  the  streets,  and  bring  him 
down  here. 

PETER.     Oh  !     I'll  grab  a  kid  all  right.     (Shows  muscle.) 

GUNK.  Hurry,  Peter  !  (PETER  exits  slowly.}  My,  that 
Peter  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet ;  this  is  an  awful  hard  job  for 
an  old  man  like  me  anyhow  !  I've  got  a  big  notion  to  resign 
the  first  of  the  year. 


LOST   BUT   FOUND  65 

Enter  PETER,  holding  SAM  SMITHERS  by  the  collar. 

PETER.     Come  over  here,  you  little  divil !     (Cuffs  SAM.) 

GUNK.  Here!  Here!  Here!  What  are  you  doing? 
You're  not  handling  dogs  now  !  No  !  If  there's  anything  the 
matter  with  that  boy,  I'll  attend  to  him  !  I'm  the  superin- 
tendent here,  yes !  (Kindly.)  Now,  little  boy,  what's  your 
trouble  ? 

SAM.     Oh  !     Shut  up,  you  big  cheese. 

GUNK.     Eh  ?     Peter,  what  did  he  say  ? 

PETER.     He  said  he's  lost. 

GUNK.     Oh  !     So  you're  lost,  little  boy? 

SAM.     Oh,  go  on,  you  old  sidechops  ! 

GUNK.  Eh  ?  What's  that  ?  Peter  1  Didn't  he  say  some- 
thing wrong  then  ? 

PETER.     No,  he  said  he  lost  his  mother. 

GUNK.     Oh,  so  you  lost  your  mother,  little  boy  ? 

SAM.     Oh,  shut  up,  you  tomato-face  ! 

GUNK.  Peter  !  I  think  that  boy  said  something  wrong  to 
me  then  ! 

PETER.     He  said  he  likes  tomato-sauce. 

GUNK.  Well,  I  ain't  a  restaurant.  No,  Peter,  I'll  go  and 
telephone  Mr.  Slivers  right  away,  and  you  hold  on  to  the  boy ! 

[Exit. 

PETER.     Get  over  there  now  !     (Cuffs  SAM.) 

GUNK  (reentering).  Here  !  Here  !  Peter  !  What  are  you 
doing  there  ? 

PETER.     I'm  combing  his  hair  for  him. 

GUNK.     Eh  ? 

PETER  (shouting).     I'm  combing  his  hair  for  him. 

GUNK.     Yes,  it  looks  like  it,  with  those  big  swings  of  yours. 

Enter  MR.  S. 

MR.  S.  How  d'  ye  do  ? 

GUNK.  Eh  ? 

MR.  S.  I  said,  "  How  d1  ye  do?" 

GUNK.  Well,  I'm  doin'  pretty  well. 

MR.  S.  Well,  you  got  my  boy? 

GUNK.  Yes,  I've  got  a  good  boy  for  you  this  time. 

MR.  S.  You  mean  a  pretty  good  story. 

GUNK.  I  said  a  good  boy. 

MR.  S.  Well,  by  heck,  I  didn't  see  any  boy  when  I  came 


66  LOST    BUT    FOUND 

in   here.     (Looks  around,  and  sees  SAM  across  the  stage.') 
That's  my  boy  Samuel  from  the  Reform  School. 

SAM.     There's  my  old  man  ! 

MR.  S.     I'll  get  you  ! 

( Wild  chase  around  stage.    SAM  upsets  GUNK  and  the  others. 
General  confusion.) 


CURTAIN 


Political  Promises 


CHARACTERS 

JOHN  BEET,  candidate  for  Mayor. 
WILLIE,  his  office  boy. 
ADOLPHUS  SPIEGELBURGER,  a  German. 
GEORGE  WASHINGTON  ANDREW  JACKSON 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON  BROWN,  a  negro. 
ISIDORE  COHENSTEIN,  a  Hebrew. 
GIUSEPPE  BACIGALUPI,  an  Italian. 

SCENE  I 
BEFORE  THE  ELECTION 

SCENE. — JOHN  BEET'S  office.  Desk,  L.  ;  entrance,  R.  Office 
chair  at  desk.  A  couple  of  smaller  chairs  placed  about  for 
visitors.  Election  signs  about  as  though  they  were  samples, 
"  Beet  for  Mayor"  "Beet,  the  People's  Friend,"  etc. 

(As  the  curtain  rises,  WILLIE  is  dusting.  BEET  enters  im- 
mediately, throws  his  hat  on  a  chair,  takes  off  his  coat 
and,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  commences  to  go  over  a  stack  of 
mail  on  his  desk.  WILLIE  watches  him.) 

BEET  (as  he  glances  over  letters').  Has  any  one  been  in  to 
see  me  to-day  ? 

WILLIE.     Nope. 

BEET  (looking  up  and  approaching  WILLIE).  Well,  I  an* 
expecting  several  people  in  and  I  want  you  to  treat  them  right. 
Be  polite  to  them.  Offer  them  a  chair.  If  they  ask  if  Mr.  Beet 
is  in  you  must  say,  "  Certainly.  He  has  been  waiting  for  you 
for  half  an  hour."  Give  them  a  chair.  Send  them  right  in  as 
soon  as  they  come.  Don't  keep  them  waiting.  Remember  to 
be  polite  to  them  as  a  lot  may  depend  on  how  you  treat  them. 
If  you  treat  them  right,  Willie,  and  I'm  elected,  I'll  raise  your 
wages. 

67 


68  POLITICAL    PROMISES 

WILLIE.  Sure,  I'll  treat  'em  right.  Say — here  comes  an 
old  Dutchman  now.  Gee,  look  at  his  face  ! 

Enter  ADOLPHUS  SPIEGELBURGER. 

BEET  {giving  WILLIE  a  reproachful  look).  Why,  that  is  my 
old  friend,  Mr.  Spiegelburger.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Spiegel- 
burger  ?  Always  glad  to  see  you. 

SPIEG.     How  do  yourself?     You  vant  to  see  me  ? 

WILLIE.     Gee,  will  you  look  at  his  face  ! 

SPIEG.  (to  WILLIE).  Here,  you  boy,  you  leaf  me  alone.  I 
don't  vant  any  of  your  talk.  You  leaf  me  alone. 

BEET  (glaring  at  WILLIE).  Oh,  don't  mind  him,  Mr. 
Spiegelburger.  He  doesn't  know  what  he  is  saying.  Well,  it 
certainly  is  a  pleasure  to  see  your  smiling  face  again.  You 
always  have  such  a  sunny  smile. 

WILLIE  (aside).     What  a  face  ! 

SPIEG.     I  hear  you  run  for  Mayor. 

BEET.  Well,  not  running  exactly.  You  see  it's  this  way. 
A  couple  of  my  friends  have  brought  my  name  forward.  It 
was  very  kind  of  them.  They  think  they  want  to  see  me  Mayor. 
Case  of  the  office  seeking  the  man,  you  know. 

WILLIE  (suddenly  shoving  chair  behind  SPIEG.  and  nearly 
upsetting  him).  Have  a  chair.  He  is  in  and  waiting  for  you. 
Have  a  chair. 

BEET  (motioning  to  WILLIE  to  make  him  behave).  Yes,  yes, 
sit  down.  (SPIEG.  sits  and  BEET  draws  up  a  chair  beside 
him.)  Well,  Spiegelburger,  what  do  you  think  of  the  German 
vote? 

SPIEG.  You  leaf  it  to  me.  I  haf  de  Choiman  vote  all  right. 
I  haf  it  right  in  mine  hand.  You  leaf  it  to  me. 

BEET.     Well,  you  know  where  I  stand  in  the  matter. 

SPIEG.     You  like  de  Choimans  ? 

BEET.  I  should  say  I  do.  I  am  for  the  Germans  every 
time.  Hock  the  Kaiser  for  me.  I  think  the  finest  man  that 
ever  lived  is  good  old  Emperor  William.  Do  you  know,  if  I 
were  not  an  American  I  should  want  to  be  a  German  every 
time. 

SPIEG.     Yah  !     Dot  is  right.     Dey  drink  more  beer. 

WILLIE.     I  know  it. 

SPIEG.  (to  WILLIE).  You  go  vay ;  you  make  too  much  mon^ 
key  business. 

BEET.  You  understand  what  I  think  about  you,  Mr.  Spie- 
gelburger ?  You  are  a  most  prominent  citizen 


POLITICAL    PROMISES  69 

SPIEG.     Oh,  qvit  your  kiddin'. 

WILLIE  (making  his  hand  go  over  the  curve  of  an  imaginary 
large  abdomen).  Very  prominent,  very  prominent. 

SPIEG.  (to  WILLIE).  Here  you,  boy.  You  don't  know  who 
I  am.  You  ask  Mr.  Beet.  He  knows  who  I  am. 

BEET  (glaring  at  boy.  To  SPIEG.).  You  think  the  Ger- 
man vote  is  all  right  then  ? 

SPIEG.  You  leaf  it  to  me.  Vait  a  minute,  I  vant  to  ask  you 
somedings.  Ven  I  haf  you  elected  got,  vot  do  I  get  ? 

BEET.     What  do  you  want? 

SPIEG.     I  vant  to  be  Chief  Brewery  Inspector. 

BEET.  Why,  certainly !  Anything  you  like.  You  know 
me.  Just  come  and  see  me.  I'll  fix  it  all  up  fine  and  dandy. 

SPIEG.     Yah.     You  see  I  vant  to  sample  all  de  beer. 

BEET.     Of  course,  of  course.     Just  the  man  for  the  position. 

SPIEG.     All  right.     I  come  after  you  elected.     Good-bye. 

BEET.  Good-bye.  Remember  me  to  your  friends.  Always 
glad  to  see  you.  [Exit  SPIEG. 

WILLIE  (to  BEET).  Well,  what  are  you  glaring  at  me  for? 
Didn't  I  give  him  a  chair  ? 

BEET.  Yes,  you  gave  him  a  chair  all  right !  You  chucked 
it  under  his  legs,  that's  what  you  did.  You  must  be  more  po- 
lite. You  must  remember  that.  See  here,  if  I  get  the  office  I 
will  give  you  a  dollar.  Now  you  try  to  be  polite  !  Remem- 
ber that.  A  dollar. 

WILLIE.  All  right;  a  dollar  for  mine.  (Enter  BROWN.) 
Gee,  look  at  the  coon. 

BEET  (rushing  over  to  BROWN  effusively).  Well,  if  there 
isn't  Mr.  Brown.  Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Brown  ?  I  de- 
clare you  are  one  of  the  best  friends  I  have.  (WILLIE  shoves 
chair  at  BROWN  and  BROWN  feints  at  him.}  Oh,  don't  mind 
him.  I  have  to  keep  him  around  here. 

BROWN.     Too  fresh. 

WILLIE.     Ah,  sit  down. 

BROWN.     Ah  understand  yo'  are  elected  Mayor. 

BEET.  Well,  I  can  hardly  say  I  am  elected.  You  see  some 
of  my  friends  have  sort  of  taken  the  matter  in  their  hands  and 
are  pushing  me  for  the  office.  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  really 
seeking  it.  Case  of  office  seeking  the  man,  you  know.  Well, 
we  will  see. 

BROWN.     Who  is  going  to  put  you  in  dat  office  ? 

BEET.     Oh,  I  shall  be  elected  by  the  suffrage 

BROWN.     Suffrage,  sell  fish  ? 


JO  POLITICAL    PROMISES 

BEET.     I  mean  the  great  men  of  this  town 

BROWN.     The  Suffrage? 

BEET.  The  great  men  of  this  town  will  put  me  in  the  high 
position  to  which  I  am  called.  You  are  one  of  the  great  men, 
Mr.  Brown.  You  represent  one  of  the  grandest  races  that 
ever 

BROWN.     You  like  us  mokes  ? 

BEET.  Brown,  you  hold  the  negro  vote  in  the  hollow  of 
your  hand. 

BROWN.     Yeh,  right  in  de  hollow  ob  man  han*. 

BEET.  Yes,  Mr.  Brown,  I  think  a  negro  is  every  bit  as  good 
as  a  white  man.  I  firmly  hope  to  live  to  see  the  day  when  I 
shall  see  a  colored  man  President  of  the  United  States. 

BROWN.     Ummm  !     Suppose  you  get  all  us  mokes'  votes  ? 

BEET.  I  shall  always  have  the  greatest  respect  for  you  as 
one  of  the  great  men  of  the  town. 

BROWN.  Yeh.  Ah'm  a  great  man.  Ah  want  yo'  to  git  dis 
moke  a  job.  Ah  want  to  be  President  of  the  Police  Force. 

BEET.     You  mean  Chief  of  Police  ? 

WILLIE.  Gee !  Coon  policemen.  You  couldn't  see  them 
in  the  dark. 

BROWN.     Here,  boy,  you  leave  me  'lone.     You  hear  me  ? 

WILLIE.     Go  'long,  chocolate  drop. 

BROWN.     Yo'  sweep  yo'  flo'. 

WILLIE.  Burglars  would  have  a  fine  old  time  with  coon 
cops. 

BROWN.     Yo'  empty  yo'  waste  basket. 

BEET.     Willie,  behave  yourself.     Remember  ! 

BROWN  (to  BEET).  Yeh,  dress  'em  all  up  in  green  suits  and 
pink  trimmin's.  Jus'  lak  a  watermelon.  Brass  buttons,  all 
nice.  All  shine  at  night.  Do  I  get  dat  job  ? 

BEET.  Why,  you  know  you  only  have  to  leave  it  to  me.  I 
will  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  old  friend.  Just  come 
in  and  see  me. 

BROWN.     Well,  Ah  will  come  back  fo'  dat  job. 

BEET.     Dee-lighted.  [Exit  BROWN. 

WILLIE.     You  owe  me  a  dollar. 

BEET.  I  said  after  I  was  elected,  and  if  you  don't  behave 
better  you  won't  get  it  then. 

Enter  ISIDORE  COHENSTEIN.     WILLIE  shoves  chair  at  him,  and 
then  follows  him  with  it  all  around  the  room. 

COHEN.     Is  dis  Mr.  Beet  ? 


POLITICAL    PROMISES  7! 

BEET.     Yes,  I  am  Mr.  Beet. 

COHEN.     Veil,  I  came  abondt  dot  letter  you  wrote  me. 

BEET.  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Cohenstein,  so  glad  to  see  you.  Sit 
down.  (They  sit.)  Well,  you  see  I  have  always  had  a  great 
liking  for  the  Hebrews.  I  have  always  thought  one  of  the 
nicest  trades  to  have  in  a  city  was  the  trade  of  pawnbroker. 
He  is  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need.  I  believe  there  should  be 
no  license  on  pawnbroker  shops. 

COHEN.  Now  you  got  it.  Rob  people  who  try  to  make 
some  honest  money.  The  poor,  poor  people.  It's  a  shame. 
(WILLIE  snores.)  Who  is  running  a  sawmill  around  here  ? 

BEET  (rousing  WILLIE,  while  still  talking  to  COHEN.).  As 
I  said,  I  believe  you  are  very  much  respected  in  the  Hebrew 
community. 

COHEN.     Veil,  I  run  sixteen  pawnshops. 

BEET.  The  Hebrew  vote  is  a  very  large  one  in  this  section. 
They  have  large  property  interests.  Now  of  course  I  will  help 
the  people  who  stand  by  me.  I  like  you,  Mr.  Cohenstein. 
You  are  one  of  the  shining  lights  in  the  community. 

WILLIE  (aside).     Yes — an  Israel-lite. 

COHEN.     Dot's  it. 

BEET.  Well,  I  thought  you  might  see  your  way  clear  to  have 
the  Jewish  vote  support  me. 

COHEN.  Veil,  if  you're  elected,  no  license  on  de  pawn- 
shops ? 

BEET.     Certainly  not.     It's  an  imposition  on  honest  men. 

COHEN.  Dot's  it.  But  say,  Mr.  Beet,  dere's  someding  else. 
I  vant  to  be  President  fin  de  Board  of  Public  Voikers. 

BEET.  Board  of  Public  Workers?  You  mean  Board  of 
Public  Works. 

COHEN.     It's  all  de  same.     Voik  de  public,  dot's  vot  I  vant. 

BEET.  You  shall  be  anything  you  want.  Just  come  around 
after  I  am  elected. 

COHEN.  All  right.  Now  I  go  to  all  de  hock  shops,  all  de 
peddlers.  Dey  all  vote  for  you. 

BEET.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Cohen- 
stein. So  glad  you  came  in.  Come  often. 

COHEN.  Sure,  after  you're  elected.  I  voik  now.  Good- 
day. 

BEET.  Good-day,  my  dear  Mr.  Cohenstein.  {Exit  COHEN.) 
Willie,  see  if  there  is  any  one  outside  waiting. 

WILLIE  (looking  out ).  Yep,  there's  an  old  Dago  out  there. 
(Calls.)  Hey,  come  in. 


72  POLITICAL   PROMISES 

BEET.  Dago !  Sssh !  (Enter  GIUSEPPE  BACIGALUPI.) 
Why,  it's  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Bacigalupi.  How  are  all  the 
people  in  Little  Italy  ?  As  good  looking  as  you  are  ?  Did  you 
make  lots  of  vino  this  year  ? 

BACI.  Two  barrels.  Fine  stuff.  Drinka  two  quart  every 
day. 

BEET.  How  I  love  macaroni  and  spaghetti.  Better  than 
turkey.  But  I  suppose  you  have  heard  about  the  election. 

BACI.     You  send  me  letter,  yes  ? 

BEET.  The  Italians  are  a  great  people.  Columbus  was  an 
Italian.  Garibaldi  was  an  Italian.  If  I  were  not  an  American 
I  should  want  to  be  an  Italian.  Do  you  know  that  ? 

BACI.     You  meana  dat? 

BEET.  Yes,  I  do.  I  would  like  to  have  the  support  of  the 
Italian  people. 

BACI.     Well,  you  got  it. 

BEET.     I  am  glad  of  that. 

BACI.  You  bet.  Alia  my  frien'  vote  how  I  tell  'em.  Some 
vota  once,  some  vota  twice.  Alia  vota  vor  you. 

BEET.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  That's  it,  early  and 
often,  eh  ? 

BACI.     If  I  get  Italian  vote,  what  I  get  ? 

BEET.     What  do  you  want  ? 

BACI.     You  know  I  can't  write. 

BEET.     Well,  then,  I  couldn't  give  you  any  clerical  work. 

BACI.  I  can't  read.  But  I  know  good  job.  I  like  be  Presi- 
dent Board  Education.  I  got  two  little  boy  go  school  now  and 
I  like  to  go  and  stand  in  schoolroom,  puta  my  hand  on  desk 
and  say,  "  How  you  get  along,  Willie?" 

BEET.     I  know  your  heart  is  true  gold  all  the  way  through. 

BACI.     Alia  way  through.     Do  I  get  da  job? 

BEET.  Why,  of  course.  Just  come  in  here  the  day  after  I 
am  elected  and  it  will  be  all  ready  for  you. 

BACI.     Thank  you.     Now  I  go  work.  [Exit. 

BEET  (looking  at  watch).  My  goodness,  it's  quarter  to 
twelve  and  I  have  to  make  a  noonday  speech  at  the  Chamber 
of  Commerce.  (Htirriedly  puts  on  his  coat  and  WILLIE  brings 
him  his  hat.')  Take  good  care  of  the  office,  Willie.  If  any 
one  comes,  tell  them  I'll  be  back  in  a  few  moments.  Tell 
them  to  wait.  Don't  let  them  go.  Hold  on  to  them.  Good- 
bye. [Exit,  hurriedly. 

CURTAIN 


POLITICAL    PROMISES  73 

SCENE  II 
AFTER  THE  ELECTION 

SCENE.— The  same. 

(Shouts  and  general  tttmult  begin  before  the  curtain  rises. 
Cries  of  "  Hurrah  for  Beet"  etc.  As  the  curtain  rises, 
BEET,  wearing  a  frock  coat,  high  hat,  and  gloves  in  con- 
trast to  his  former  rather  careless  attire,  backs  on  to  the 
stage.  He  is  bowing  and  smiling  and  waving  his  hand 
apparently  to  the  crowds  without.  He  closes  the  door 
and  gives  his  hat  and  gloves  to  WILLIE  in  a  very  dignified 
way  while  the  latter  regards  him  in  silent  awe.) 

BEET.  Willie,  I  want  you  to  give  me  your  attention.  You 
know  you  are  the  Mayor* s  office  boy  now.  You  must  act  with 
a  dignity  becoming  your  exalted  station. 

WILLIE  (aside).  Gee,  I  bet  he  swallowed  a  page  out  of  the 
dictionary. 

BEET.  I  am  going  to  be  very  busy  now.  Very  busy. 
Don't  let  any  one  in  at  that  door.  Remember  that.  No  one 
must  come  in  to  disturb  me.  I  am  busy  and  cannot  see  any 
one. 

(He  sits  leisurely  in  the  big  office  chair,  leans  back  and  com- 
mences to  read  a  newspaper?) 

WILLIE.  Say,  Mr.  Beet,  where  is  my  dollar  ?  You  prom- 
ised me  a  dollar  if  you  got  elected,  you  know. 

BEET.  That's  all  right.  That's  all  right.  Don't  bother  me 
now.  I  am  busy,  very  busy. 

(  Continues  reading.  Knock  at  the  door.  WILLIE  goes  and 
opens  it  half  way.  SPIEG.  is  seen  through  the  opening?) 

SPIEG.     Is  Mr.  Beet  in  ? 

WILLIE.  He  says  he  ain't  in.  He's  busy.  He  can't  see 
any  one. 

SPIEG.  (pushing  his  way  in).  Dot's  all  right.  He  vill 
always  see  me.  I'm  his  old  friend  Spiegelburger.  How  do, 
Mr.  Beet? 

BEET  (to  WILLIE).  Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  let  anyone  in? 
(Looks  at  SPIEG.  with  an  icy  stare.}  Who  is  this  fellow  any- 
how? 


74  POLITICAL    PROMISES 

SPIEG.  Vot !  don't  you  remember  me  ?  Your  old  friend 
Spiegelburger  ? 

BEET.  Why,  I  don't  know  you  from  Adam.  Never  saw  you 
before. 

SPIEG.     Vy,  I'm  going  to  be  Chief  Brewery  Inspector. 

BEET.  Chief  Brewery  Inspector !  This  crazy  Dutchman 
must  have  escaped  from  a  lunatic  asylum.  Boy,  put  him  out. 

SPIEG.     Don't  I  get  Brewery  Inspector? 

BEET.     You  get  out !     Willie,  put  him  out. 

(WILLIE  seizes  SPIEG.  and  commences  shoving  him  toward 
the  door.') 

SPIEG.  (as  he  struggles}.  Ach  Du  Unheil !  Du  Schwein  ! 
Leaf  go  of  me  !  Du  Teufelskind  !  Help  !  Let  me  go  ! 

(WILLIE  puts  him  out,  returns  and  closes  the  door. ) 

BEET.     Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  let  any  one  in  here  ? 

WILLIE.     I  didn't  let  him  in,  he  came. 

BEET.  Well,  don't  let  any  more  come,  and  if  they  do,  put 
them  out. 

BROWN  (opening  door  and  entering  rapidly  holding  out  his 
hand  to  BEET,  who  puts  his  own  behind  his  back  and  moves 
away).  How  do,  Mr.  Beet  ? 

BEET.  Willie,  what  do  you  mean  by  letting  niggers  come 
into  my  office? 

BROWN.     Nigger ! 

BEET.     Willie,  put  that  dirty  nigger  out  of  here. 

BROWN.     Ah'm  Chief  of  Police. 

BEET.     You're  crazy.     Willie ! 

(WILLIE  seizes  BROWN,  but  he  puts  him  aside.) 

BROWN.  Didn't  you  say  a  colored  gent  was  as  good  as  a 
white  man,  and  Ah  was  goin'  to  be  Chief  of  Police? 

BEET.  Willie,  this  man's  crazy.  A  nigger  Chief  of  Police  ! 
Put  him  out. 

(WILLIE  seizes  BROWN  aud  gradually  pushes  him  toward  the 
door.) 

BROWN.  Yo'  dirty  white  trash  !  Ah  cut  yo'  heart  out  ! 
Let  me  go  !  I'll  fix  you.  [Exeunt. 

Reenter  WILLIE. 


POLITICAL    PROMISES  75 

BEET.     Willie,  don't  you  ever  let  a  nigger  enter  my  office. 

WILLIE.     But  before 

BEET.     Never  mind  before.     Do  what  I  tell  you. 

WILLIE.     But  how  about  my  dollar  ? 

BEET.  Never  mind  your  dollar.  (Enter  COHEN.  BEET, 
very  loud.}  Who's  this  dirty  Sheeny  ? 

COHEN,   (stopping  aghast}.     Sheeny! 

BEET.  Willie,  put  that  dirty  Sheeny  out.  I  don't  want 
such  riffraff  in  my  office. 

COHEN.     Sheeny !     Sheeny !     Ooooooh ! 

(  WILLIE  seizes  him} 

BEET.     Out  I  say,  out. 

COHEN.     Ain't  I  President  fin  der  Board  of  Public  Voikers  ? 

BEET.     You're  a  low  down,  swindling  pawnbroker. 

[Exeunt  WILLIE  and  COHEN. 

Reenter  WILLIE. 

WILLIE.  Say,  don't  I  get  that  dollar  now  after  all  that 
work? 

BEET.  What  are  you  worrying  about  that  dollar  for  ?  You 
ought  to  be  proud  to  be  the  Mayor's  office  boy. 

Enter  BACI.,  who  walks  to  c.  and  beams  at  BEET. 

BACI.     Hello,  Mr.  Beet.     You  Mayor  now,  hey  ? 

BEET.  Willie,  I  smell  swill.  Oh,  I  see.  You  will  find  the 
swill  barrel  down  in  the  basement.  We  don't  keep  it  here. 

BACI.  (smiling).  I  no  come  for  swill.  I  come  be  President 
Board  Education. 

BEET.  President  of  the  Board  of  Education  !  You  ignorant 
Dago  !  Willie,  out  with  him. 

BACI.  Don't  you  know  me  ?  Me  Giuseppe  Garibaldi.  Me 
ol*  friend. 

BEET.     You're  drunk.     Put  him  out. 

(WILLIE  seizes  him} 

BACI.  What !  You  don't  know  me  ?  Sacramento  !  Dio 
Came  !  Santa  Maria  !  Aaaaach  ! 

(He  is  hauled  out  struggling  by  WILLIE.) 
Reenter  WILLIE,  who  locks  door  and  puts  key  in  his  pocket. 


76  POLITICAL    PROMISES 

BEET.     Why  didn't  you  put  him  out  ? 

WILLIE.     I  did.     Didn't  you  see  me  ? 

BEET.     You  should  not  have  let  him  in. 

WILLIE.  Well,  I  put  all  of  'em  out.  Now  I  want  that 
dollar. 

BEET.     Dollar?     What  dollar? 

WILLIE.  That  dollar  !  Didn't  you  promise  me  a  dollar  if 
you  were  elected  ?  What  do  you  think  I  acted  so  nice  for  all 
the  time  ?  Come  through. 

BEET.  Why,  you  ought  to  be  proud  to  be  the  Mayor's  office 
boy. 

WILLIE  (threateningly).  None  of  that  now.  Do  I  get  that 
dollar  ? 

BEET.     I  don't  see  why  I  should  give  you  a  dollar. 

WILLIE.  You  don't,  eh?  (Goes  to  door,  unlocks  it  and 
opens  it  a  bit  holding  his  foot  against  it.  Terrible  noise  out- 
side. The  four  other  characters  can  be  seen  pushing  against 
the  door  and  it  is  all  the  boy  can  do  to  keep  them  from  opening 
it  further.')  Do  I  get  that  dollar  ? 

BEET,  (terrified}.     Yes,  yes,  you  get  the  dollar  all  right. 

(He  rushes  over  to  the  door  and  helps  WILLIE  to  close  it. 
WILLIE  locks  it  and  the  sounds  die  away.  BEET  gives 
WILLIE  a  dollar  and  sinks  on  one  of  the  visitor* s  chairs 
exhausted.  WILLIE  bites  the  dollar  to  see  if  it  is  good, 
then  goes  slowly  to  the  big  office  chair,  sits  down,  puts  his 
feet  up  on  the  desk,  and  commences  to  read  the  neivspaper.} 


CURTAIN 


When  the  Cat  is  Away 


CHARACTERS 

LORD  EVERBROKE,  an  English  nobleman. 
HENRY,  his  butler. 

HERBERT,  valet  to  the  Count  Less-  Thousands. 
HORACE,  footman  to  the  Duke  of  Dubshire. 
EDWARD,  butler  to  the  Earl  Fitz-Ill. 
JAMES,  coachman  to  the  Baron  Island. 
MOSES  EISENSTEIN,  a  money-lender. 

SCENE. — Living-room  in  LORD  EVERBROKE'S  country  house, 
well-furnished.  A  large  table,  c.,  with  an  easy  chair  by  it, 
a  number  of  other  chairs  of  various  kinds.  At  the  rear,  c., 
is  a  large  doorway  leading  into  other  rooms  of  the  house. 
Left  is  a  door  leading  into  a  closet  or  else  a  large  wardrobe 
or  cupboard  of  some  kind  may  be  made  part  of  the  furnish- 
ing. The  door  R.  leads  to  the  hallway  and  entrance  to  the 
house.  At  the  rear  of  the  stage,  close  to  c.  entrance,  is  a 
large  sofa  with  a  fairly  high  back,  of  the  style  known  as  a 
1 '  davenport ' '  preferably. 

(EVER,  is  discovered  sitting  in  easy  chair  reading  a  book,  but 
dressed  in  a  traveling  suit,  although  it  is  evening.  HENRY 
enters,  c.,  with  a  suit-case,  hat  and  coat.  He  stands 
stiffly  beside  EVER.'S  chair  a  moment.  Then  speaks?) 

HEN.  Your  portmanteau  is  ready,  me  Lud. 

EVER,  (putting  down  his  book  and  rising).  Oh,  yes, 

Henry.  Have  you  everything  packed  ? 

HEN.  Yes,  me  Lud. 

EVER.  Is  the  motor  ready  ? 

HEN.  Yes,  me  Lud. 

EVER.  All  right,  Henry.  Now,  Henry,  you  understand  I 
shall  be  gone  a  few  days  at  the  least. 

HEN.  Yes,  me  Lud. 

77 


78  WHEN    THE    CAT    IS    AWAY 

EVER.  And  I  want  you  to  take  good  care  of  the  house  while 
I  am  gone. 

HEN.  Yes,  me  Lud. 

EVER.  Don't  have  any  prowlers  about. 

HEN.  Oh,  no,  me  Lud. 

EVER.  And  cover  up  the  furniture. 

HEN.  Yes,  me  Lud. 

EVER.  All  right,  Henry. 

(He  takes  his  hat  and  coat  from  HEN.  and exit ',  K.,  followed 
by  HEN.  Sounds  of  front  door  closing,  and  of  an  auto- 
mobile leaving.  Reenter  HEN.,  unbuttoning  his  coat.} 

HEN.  Hi  thought  the  old  codger  would  never  go.  (Mocks 
EVER.)  "  Take  good  careof  the  'ouse,  'Enry,"  "  Don't  'aveany 
prowlers  around,  'Enry."  Oh,  no,  I  won't  have  any  prowlers 
around  !  Hi  'ave  four  friends  coming  to-night.  (Looks  at 
his  watch.')  My,  hit's  lite.  Himust'urry.  (Exit,z.  Door- 
bell rings.  Reenter  HEN.,  putting  on  an  evening  coat  as  he 
walks  across  the  room.  Exit,  R.,  a  moment,  and  then  r centers.) 
Glad  to  see  you,  'Erbert.  Come  in.  {Enter  HERBERT  in  even- 
ing dress,  hat  in  hand.)  Oh,  'ang  your  'at  in  the  'all.  {Exit 
HER.,  and reenter  hurriedly.)  'Ow  are  you,  'Erbert? 

HER.     Ripping.     His  the  master  gone  ? 

HEN.  Ow,  yes,  gone  to  Lunnon  for  a  few  days,  and  it's 
glad  Hi  am.  (The  bell  rings.)  Hexcuse  me,  'Erbert,  the 
bell.  (Exit,  R.,  while  HER.  looks  about  the  room,  and r centers 
with  EDWARD.)  Hedward,  you  know  'Erbert,  don't  you? 

ED.     Ow,  yes,  to  be  sure.     'Ow  are  you,  'Erbert? 

HER.     'Ow  hare  you,  Hedward  ?     Hi'm  glad  to  see  you. 

(The  bell  rings) 

HEN.     Hexcuse  me,  the  bell.  [Exit,  R. 

ED.     Hit's  quite  a  party  'Enry's  'aving. 

Enter  HEN.  and  HORACE. 

HER.     Good-hevening,  'Orace,  'ow  are  you  ? 
HOR.     Good-hevening,  'Erbert,  good-hevening,  Hedward. 
ED.     Good-hevening,  'Orace.     (The  bell  rings ) 
HEN.     Hexcuse  me,  gentlemen.  [Exit. 

HOR.     'Ow  is  the  old  Earl  ? 

ED.  'Is  gout  his  orful.  fE's  terrible  cross.  Hit's  glad  to 
get  away  from  'im  Hi  am. 


WHEN    THE    CAT    IS    AWAY  79 

Enter  JAMES,  dressed  in  livery  in  contrast  to  the  others,  who 
all  wear  evening  dress.  He  is  followed  by  HEN.  All  rise 
and  stare  at  him. 

HER.     Houtrageous ! 

HOR.     Hun' card  of! 

ED.     Hi  call  hit  hinhexcusable  ! 

HER.     To  come  to  a  gentlemen's  party  bin  livery. 

HOR.     Hi  never  'card  of  such  a  thing. 

JAMES.  Gentlemen,  Hi  'ad  to  woik  lite  to-night,  hand  Hi 
did  not  'ave  time  to  chinge. 

ED.     That's  no  hexcuse. 

HEN.  (a  bit  embarrassed  but  trying  to  smooth  things  over). 
Hi'm  glad  to  see  you  all  'ere.  Now,  hexcuse  me  a  moment 
while  Hi  get  some  refreshments. 

JAMES.  Yes,  'Enry,  get  the  refreshments.  Hi  like  the  re- 
freshments. 

(All  stare  at  him.     Exit  HEN.,  c.) 

HOR.     'Enry's  a  fine  fellow.     'E  knows  'ow  to  hentertain. 
JAMES.     That's  what  Hi  say. 

(He  is  glared  at  again.     Do  or -bell  rings.     All  look  about.*) 
Reenter  HEN.,  puzzled. 

HEN.  Hi  wonder  oo  hit  can  be.  Hexcuse,  me,  gentlemen, 
Hi'll  look  out  the  window.  (Exit  R.,  and  r center  quickly, 
while  the  door-bell  rings  more  furiously  than  ever.)  Ow,  Lud  ! 
Hit's  the  master.  'Ide  !  'Ide  !  (General  scurrying  about.) 
'Ere,  in  the  closet.  {Opens  door  L.,  and  shoves  HER.  in.) 
Hunder  the  table.  (Hon.  gets  under  the  table  where  he  is  hid- 
den by  the  cover.)  Be'ind  the  sofa  ! 

(ED.  gets  behind  the  sofa.) 
JAMES.     Where  will  I  'ide,  'Enry  ? 

(HEN.  looks  puzzled  a  moment,  then  has  an  idea.) 

HEN.  'E  told  me  to  cover  the  furniture.  (Runs  to  door 
L.,  takes  sheet  from  closet?)  Hon  the  sofa. 

(JAMES  lies  down  on  the  sofa  getting  his  feet  the  wrong  way 
at  first,  and  HEN.  throws  the  sheet  over  the  whole  cover- 
ing all  but  one  foot.  All  this  time  the  door-bell  has  been 


8O  WHEN    THE    CAT    IS    AWAY 

ringing  fttriously.  HEN.  fulls  off  his  coat,  runs  out  door 
C.,  and  returns  running  with  his  livery  coat  half  on,  and 
exit,  L.,  returning  in  a  moment  bowing  before  EVER,  and 

MOSES  EISENSTEIN.) 

EVER.  What's  the  matter,  Henry?  You  kept  me  waiting  a 
very  long  time. 

HEN.  {yawning  a  bit).  Hexcuse  me,  sir.  Hi  was  going 
to  bed. 

EVER,  {looking  at  his  watch).  Rather  early  for  you  to  be 
going  to  bed. 

HEN.     Yes,  sir.     Hi  ;ad  a  very  'ard  day's  work. 

EVER.  Very  well,  then,  you  may  leave  us.  I  shall  not  need 
you  any  more  to-night.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Eisenstein. 

HEN.  (looking  about  apprehensively).     Good-night,  me  Lud. 

EVER.  Good-night,  Henry.  ( Exit  HEN.,  c.,  slowly;  EVER. 
sits  down.)  Well,  Mr.  Eisenstein,  it  was  a  lucky  thing  I  hap- 
pened to  meet  you.  It  saved  me  a  trip  to  London.  Do  you 
know  I  was  coming  down  especially  to  see  you  ? 

EISEN.     Yes  ? 

EVER.     Yes,  sir. 

Enter  HEN.,  c.  He  moves  about  quietly  and  pulls  down  the 
corner  of  the  sheet  that  shows  JAMES'  foot.  EVER,  hears 
him  and  turns,  suddenly  rising. 

HEN.     Would  you  like  some  refreshment,  me  Lud  ? 

EVER.  No  !  I  told  you,  Henry,  I  would  not  require  you 
any  further.  I  wish  to  be  alone.  Do  you  understand  ? 

HEN.     Yes,  me  Lud.  [Exit,  c. 

EVER.  I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  that  fellow ;  he's 
acting  very  queerly  to-night. 

EISEN.     I  don't  know. 

EVER.  Well,  Mr.  Eisenstein,  to  return  to  what  I  was  say- 
ing when  that  fellow  interrupted,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you 
because  I  have  some  very  important  business  to  talk  over  with 
you. 

EISEN.     Yes  ?     Mit  me  ? 

EVER.  Well,  Mr.  Eisenstein,  I  guess  you  know  how  it  is 
with  me.  Lots  of  titles  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  very 
little  ready  cash. 

EISEN.     Yes,  dere  all  de  same. 

EVER.  Well,  Mr.  Eisenstein,  I  was  thinking  of  a  scheme 
by  which  I  can  raise  some  money,  in  fact  we  can  both  make 
some  money,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me. 


WHEN   THE   CAT   IS   AWAY  8 1 

ElSEN.      Me  ? 

EVER.     Yes. 

EISEN.     Veil,  vat's  de  scheme  ? 

EVER.  Well,  you  see  it's  like  this.  I  have  a  lot  of  rich 
neighbors  living  about  me  here,  all  good  friends  of  mine. 
There's  the  Count  Less-Thousands  (HER.  momentarily  looks 
out  the  closet  door),  the  Duke  of  Dubshire  (Hoi<.  peeps  out), 
a  silly  ass  but  very  wealthy,  the  Earl  Fitz-Ill,  an  old  fool 
in  his  dotage  (Eo.  peeps),  and  the  old  Baron  Island,  another 
jolly  rotter, — but  all  very  rich.  Now,  you  see  these  people 
always  do  what  I  do. 

EISENO     Ah-ha,  I  see. 

EVER.  Now,  I  was  thinking  that  we  would  start  some  kind 
of  a  scheme,  a  mining  company  or  something  of  the  sort — of 
course  you  don't  have  to  have  any  mines — just  sell  stock.  You 
see  I  would  take  a  lot  of  shares  and  then  of  course  they  would 
too.  I  pay  nothing  for  my  shares,  they  pay,  the  mines  fail, 
and  we  divide  the  money. 

EISEN.     Oh,  I  see,  a  skin  game. 

EVER.  Oh,  no,  no;  don't  call  it  that.  Just  a  little  financial 
operation. 

EISEN.     Veil,  it's  all  the  same.     But  vere  do  I  come  in  ? 

EVER.  Why,  you  see  I  can't  go  around  and  sell  the  shares 
myself.  You  are  selling  them  and  I  buy  first.  Of  course  I 
pay  nothing.  Then  you  go  to  these  other  people. 

EISEN.     I  see. 

EVER.  Now  I'll  show  you  where  these  people  live.  (Rises.) 
Just  a  moment,  I  have  a  map  right  here  in  the  closet.  (Opens 
door,  L.,  and  discovers  HER.)  What's  this?  A  man  in  the 
closet !  (Makes  a  grab  for  HER.  and  hauls  him  out  to  the  center 
of  the  stage,  shaking  him  while  EISEN.  runs  about  excitedly?) 
What  are  you  doing  in  my  house  ?  I'll  call  the  police.  Who 
are  you  anyhow  ? 

HER.     I'm  valet  to  the  Count  Less-Thousands. 

EVER.     The  Count  Less-Thousands  ! 

HER.  {getting  bolder).     Yes,  sir,  and  I  'card  it  all. 

EVER.     You  heard  it  all  !     What  do  you  mean  ? 

HER.  I  'card  your  little  scheme,  and  I'll  tell  the  Count 
Less-Thousands. 

EVER.     You'll  tell  the  Count  Less-Thousands  ! 

EISEN.     Oi,  oi,  oi,  ve're  ruined  ! 

EVER,  (suddenly,  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pro- 
ducing a  bank-note).  There's  five  pounds.  You  heard  nothing. 


82  WHEN   THE   CAT   IS   AWAY 

HER.  Oh,  no,  me  Lud.  I  'card  nothing.  Thank  you,  me 
Lud.  I  'card  nothing  at  all.  (Bows  himself  out,  R.) 

EVER.  My,  but  that  was  a  narrow  escape.  He  nearly 
spoiled  everything.  (Sits  down  at  table.  HOR.  sneezes.  EVER. 
springs  up.}  What's  that  ?  (Looks  under  table  ;  sees  HOR. 
and  drags  him  out.}  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  Who  are 
you  ? 

HOR.     Hi'm  the  Duke  of  Dubshire's  footman. 

EVER.     The  Duke  of  Dubshire  !     Another  one  ! 

HOR.     Yes,  me  Lud,  and  I  ;eard  it  all,  too. 

EVER.  You  heard  it  all,  too,  did  you?  (Hands  him  a 
bank-note.}  You  heard  nothing. 

HOR.  (looking  meditatively  from  the  bank-note  in  his  hand 
to  EVER.).  Maybe  I  did  and  maybe  I  didn't. 

EVER,  (handing  him  another).  There,  now  you  heard 
nothing. 

HOR.  Oh,  no,  me  Lud,  nothing  whatsoever.  Nothing  what- 
soever. (Bows  himself  out,  L.) 

EVER.  I  wonder  if  there  are  any  more  of  these  fellows 
around  here  ?  Henry  must  have  been  having  a  party.  (He 
searches  around  the  room  a  bit  and  finally  discovers  ED.  be- 
hind the  sofa.}  Another  one  !  (Pulls  him  forward.}  And 
I  suppose  you  heard  it,  too  ? 

ED.  Yes,  me  Lud,  and  Til  tell  the  Earl  Fitz-Ill  what  you 
said  about  him. 

EVER.     The  Earl  Fitz-Ill !     I  suppose  you're  his 

ED.  Butler,  me  Lud;  yes,  me  Lud,  and  I  'card  it  all. 
He  very  word. 

EVER,  (emptying  his  pocket}.  You're  mistaken.  You  heard 
nothing. 

ED.  Oh,  no,  me  Lud,  Hi  'card  nothing.  Hi  was  never 
'ere. 

EVER.     All  right. 

ED.     Good-night,  me  Lud.     Thank  you,  me  Lud. 

(Bows  himself  out,  R.) 

EISEN.  (who  all  during  the  finding  of  the  servants  runs 
about  wringing  his  hands  and  crying).  Oi  !  Oi !  Oi !  My, 
dot  costs  a  lot  of  money.  I  'card  it  all,  I  'card  nothing,  I  'eard 
it  all.  Oi !  Oi !  Oi ! 

EVER.  I  know,  but  I  don't  intend  to  have  this  scheme 
spoiled. 

EISEN.     Veil,  vat  ve  do  now  ? 


WHEN    THE    CAT   IS   AWAY  83 

EVER.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  really  can't  think.  I'm  all 
unstrung.  I  feel  quite  exhausted. 

(He  sinks  down  upon  the  sofa  sitting  on  JAMES,  who  is  cov- 
ered by  the  sheet.  JAMES  yells .  EVER,  springs  up  like  he 
had  sat  on  a  tack.  EISEN.  jumps  up  on  the  table.  JAMES 
disentangles  himself  from  the  sheet,  stands  up  and  holds 
out  his  hand.) 

JAMES.     Hi  'card  it  all,  too,  and  Hi '11  tell  the  Baron  Island. 

EVER,  (searching  all  his  pockets  and  finding  nothing ;  going 
to  EISEN.,  who  is  up  on  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  low,  hur- 
ried tone).  Just  lend  me  a  few  pounds,  Mr.  Eisenstein.  I'm 
all  out  of  ready  cash.  Just  a  few  pounds,  please. 

EISEN.     But  how  about  the  security  ? 

EVER.     Oh,  that's  all  right,  we'll  fix  that  up  afterward. 

EISEN.     Oh,  no,  I  vant  my  security.     Nothing  for  nothing. 

EVER.  Here,  don't  quarrel  before  the  servants.  Just  a  few 
pounds  to  keep  this  fellow  quiet. 

EISEN.  (reaching  into  his  innermost  pocket).  I  get  the 
security  later  ? 

EVER.  Yes,  yes,  anything  you  want.  Just  give  me  the 
money  now.  (EiSEN.  reluctantly  hands  him  several  notes.) 
Here  now,  you  heard  nothing. 

JAMES.     No,  me  Lud,  I  'eard  nothing.     I  'eard  nothing. 

[Exit. 

EISEN.  {getting  down  from  table).  Veil,  now  he's  gone, 
how  about  the  security  ? 

EVER,  (sitting  down).  What  do  you  talk  to  me  about 
security  now  for?  You  know  everything  I  have  is  mortgaged. 
I  can't  give  you  any  security. 

EISEN.     Vat !  don't  I  get  my  security  ? 

EVER.  You  can  have  some  of  the  stock  when  we  form  our 
mining  company,  but  I  can't  do  anything  now. 

EISEN.     Oh,  dot  don't  go.     I  vant  my  security  now. 

EVER.     Well,  you  can't  have  it  now. 

EISEN.  I  don't  get  my  security,  eh?  (Furiously.)  Then 
I  'eard  it  all.  I'll  tell  the  Duke  of  Dubshire,  I'll  tell  the 
Count  Less-Thousands,  I'll  tell  the  Baron  Island,  I'll  tell  the 
King  of  Denmark,  I'll  tell  everybody.  [Exit,  R. 

(  While  he  is  speaking  EVER,  rises  with  gesture  of  protest. 
As  he  leaves  the  room  EVER,  sinks  exhausted  into  a  chair.) 

QUICK  CURTAIN 


The  Evil  That  Men  Do  Lives 
After  Them 


CHARACTERS 

REUBEN  GLUE,  negro  hotel  proprietor. 

JOEY  PAPINA,  Italian  lodger. 

RED  MIKE,  burglar,  afterward  ghost. 

SCENE. — A  dilapidated  hotel.  Table  c.,  with  candle  burning 
on  it ;  two  chairs,  one  on  each  side  of  it,  and  a  safe,  R., 
complete  the  scene. 

( When  the  curtain  rises  REUBEN  GLUE  is  discovered  dozing 
in  a  chair.     He  stretches,  yawns  and  rises  slowly.) 

REUBEN.  Well,  I  guess  it's  about  time  for  me  to  close  up 
and  go  to  bed.  (  Walks  slowly  over  to  safe,  humming,  "  The 
bear  went  over  the  mountain.  The  bear  went  over  the 

mount ")  My  gracious,  there's  ten  dollars  missing  out  of 

my  safe.  I  wonder  who  took  that  money  ?  I've  got  an  idea. 
I'll  bet  that  Dago  up  in  room  twenty-three  has  been  taking  my 
money.  (JOEY  PAPINA  heard  whistling  outside.)  There  he 
goes  now.  I'll  call  him  in  and  accuse  him  right  to  his  face. 
(Calls.)  Hey,  Joe  !  Joe,  come  here ;  I  want  to  see  you ! 

JOEY.     Wella,  boss,  what  you  want  ? 

REUBEN.  Say,  Joe,  do  you  know,  I've  been  losing  money 
right  along  ?  I  think  you  are  the  man  that  has  been  taking  it. 

JOEY.  Me  taka  de  mon  ?  Me  taka  de  mon  ?  No,  boss,  I 
no  taka  de  mon. 

REUBEN.  Well,  if  you  didn't  take  the  money,  you  know 
who  did. 

JOEY.     No,  boss,  I  don  know  who  taka  de  mon. 

REUBEN.  If  you  don't  tell  me  who  did  take  it,  I'll  blow  your 
brains  out. 

JOEY  (in  terror).  No,  boss  !  Don't  blow  out  my  brains  ! 
No,  boss  !  Say,  come  here.  I'll  tella  you  who  stole  de  mon. 

85 


86  THE    EVIL    THAT    MEN    DO    LIVES    AFTER    THEM 

You  know  da  man  what  live  next  room  to  me  ?  He  taka  de 
jnon,  boss. 

.REUBEN.  You  mean  that  black-haired  man  what  lives  next 
to  you?  Say,  if  I  catch  him,  I'll  shoot  him.  (Draws pistol.} 

JOEY.     No,  boss,  don't  shoot. 

REUBEN.     Why  not  ? 

JOEY.  Because  my  brudder  Angelo  he  say :  You  shoot,  de 
man  in  de  white  he  come. 

REUBEN.     What's  that?     De  man  in  de  white ? 

JOEY.     I  don't  know,  boss. 

REUBEN.  What's  that  noise?  Some  one's  coming.  Get 
down  behind  that  table.  If  he  comes,  I'll  kill  him. 

JOEY.     Don't,  boss — de  man  in  de  white. 

REUBEN.     Sh !     Dat's  de  fellow. 

(RED  MIKE,  with  a  burglar's  mask  on,  creeps  in  and  be- 
gins to  pick  lock  of  safe.  REUBEN  fires  pistol  and  RED 
MIKE  falls  on  back.) 

JOEY.     Oh  !  Bossa,  bossa,  what  you  do  ? 

REUBEN.  I've  killed  him !  Oh,  my !  what  am  I  going 
to  do? 

JOEY.     Now  you  catcha  da  ropa  ! 

REUBEN.  Oh,  my,  what  am  I  going  to  do?  I'm  going  to 
see  if  this  is  the  man.  (Searches  his  pockets. )  Yes,  here  is 
the  money  I  lost  last  night.  (Draws  out  ten  bank  notes  from 
pocket.}  What  are  we  going  to  do  with  him  ? 

JOEY.  I  know.  I'll  tell  my  brudder.  He  driva  de  ash 
wagon  ;  he  come,  take  him  away. 

REUBEN.  All  right.  We  will  put  him  in  the  ash  barrel 
now. 

(Both  carry  out  body.     Noise  outside.     Reenter.) 

JOEY.     Say,  boss,  I  find  your  mon ;  I  be  da  partner  now. 

REUBEN.  Yes,  you  are  my  partner  now.  You'll  get  half  if 
you  won't  ever  tell  I  killed  that  man. 

JOEY.     Oh,  no,  boss ;  I  no  tell. 

REUBEN.  All  right,  come  here  !  Let  me  see  how  much 
money  I  have.  (Counts  bills  one  by  one.)  One  dollar,  two 
dollars,  three  dollars,  four  dollars,  five  dollars,  six  dollars,  seven 
dollars,  eight  dollars,  nine  dollars,  ten  dollars.  Just  the  sum  I 
lost  last  night.  Well,  here  goes  !  There's  one  dollar  for  you 
(placing  bill  in  JOEY'S  hand)  and  there's  one  dollar  for  me. 


THE    EVIL   THAT   MEN    DO    LIVES   AFTER    THEM          87 

(Puts  lill  in  side  pocket.)  There's  two  dollars  for  you  {placing 
another  bill  in  JOEY'S  hand  ),  and  there's  one  dollar,  there's 
two  dollars  for  me.  (Puts  two  bills  in  side  pocket.*)  There's 
three  dollars  for  you  {placing  another  bill  in  JOEY'S  hand*),  and 
there's  one,  there's  two,  there's  three  dollars  for  me.  (Puts 
three  bills  in  side  pocket.)  There's  four  dollars  for  you. 
(Places  last  bill  in  JOEY'S  hand;  then,  looking  at  hand,  draws 
bills  from  JOEY'S  hand,  saying)  There's  one  dollar,  there's 
two  dollars,  there's  three  dollars,  there's  four  dollars  for  me. 

JOEY.     Say,  boss,  I  no  get  no  mon. 

REUBEN.  You  don't  need  any,  Joey.  You're  my  partner 
now,  and  I'm  going  to  take  good  care  of  you.  Here,  sit  down 
at  this  table,  and  I'm  going  out  to  the  kitchen  and  see  what 
Annie,  the  cook,  needs.  You  put  down  on  this  paper  what  I 
call  out. 

JOEY.     Say,  boss,  I  no  get  no  mon. 

REUBEN.  Sit  down  !  (JOEY  sits  at  table,  lighted  candle  on 
R.  Exit  REUBEN,  R.  REUBEN  from  outside)  Say,  Joe, 
put  down  there  four  watermelons. 

JOEY  (calling  aloud  and  writing).     Four  want-a-millions. 

REUBEN.     Four  watermelons. 

JOEY.  Four  want  a Oooh  !  (Gnosx  enters  L. ,  walks 

behind  JOEY,  lifts  candle  straight  up  and  down  twice,  and 
walks  off  again,  L.  JOEY  is  petrified  until  GHOST  exits  when 
he  cries  in  wild  alarm.)  Oh,  bossa,  bossa,  bossa  ! 

(REUBEN  rushes  in) 

REUBEN.     What's  the  matter? 

JOEY.  Oh,  bossa,  bossa,  de  man  in  de  white  !  De  man  in 
de  white  ! 

REUBEN.  De  man  in  de  white  !  What  are  you  talking 
about,  anyway  ? 

JOEY.     Oh,  bossa,  de  man  in  de  white  he  come. 

REUBEN.  Say,  what  are  you  giving  me  ?  You're  crazy. 
You  just  sit  down  there  where  I  tell  you  and  write  down  what 
I  call  out  to  you.  {Exit,  R.  From  R.)  Say,  Joey,  write 
down  there  four  coffee  pails. 

JOEY  (writing  and  calling  back).     Four  coffin  nails. 

REUBEN.     Four  coffee  pails. 

JOEY.  Four  coff Oooh  !  (GHOST  enters  L.,  walks 

behind  JOEY,  raises  candle  in  semicircle  over  his  head  from 
right  to  left  twice  and  exit,  L.  JOEY  again  waits  till  the  GHOST 


88  THE    EVIL    THAT    MEN    DO    LIVES    AFTER    THEM 

exits  and  cries  wildly.}  Oh,  bossa,  bossa,  bossa !  Bossa, 
bossa,  bossa ! 

Enter  REUBEN. 

REUBEN.     Well,  what's  the  matter  now  ? 

JOEY.  Oh,  bossa,  de  man  in  de  white  !  He  come  again,  de 
man  in  de  white  ! 

REUBEN.  Say,  what  are  you  talking  about  anyway  ?  Say, 
you're  kind  of  getting  me  scared  myself.  Whatever  do  you 
mean  by  de  man  in  de  white  ? 

JOEY.  Oh,  bossa,  de  man  in  de  white !  He  come.  De 
man  in  de  white  ! 

REUBEN.  Say,  don't  you  try  to  scare  me.  Why,  don't  you 
know  what  this  is  ? 

JOEY.     No,  bossa.     What  this  is — hey  ? 

REUBEN.  Why,  Joey,  that's  an  optical  illusion.  You  don't 
know  what  that  means,  I  know,  but  some  day  I'll  explain  it  to 
you.  Now,  you  just  sit  down  at  that  table  and  write  what  I 
tell  you  and  don't  call  me  away  either.  You're  wasting  my 
valuable  time.  (Exit,  R. ;  without.)  Put  down  there  four 
mushrooms. 

JOEY  (writing  and  calling  back).     Four  mac-car-roonies. 

REUBEN.     Four  mushrooms. 

JOEY.  Four  maca Oooh !  (GHOST  again  enters, 

walks  behind  JOEY  and  placing  fingers  on  candle,  extinguishes 
it,  then  exit,  L.)  Oh,  bossa,  bossa,  bossa,  bossa !  (REUBEN 
rushes  in.}  Oh,  bossa,  de  man  in  de  white,  he  come  again, 
de  man  in  de  white. 

REUBEN.  What  did  you  put  this  candle  out  for?  (Hur- 
riedly lights  candle.)  Say,  you're  just  trying  to  scare  me. 

JOEY.  Oh,  bossa,  no.  De  man  in  de  white,  he  putta  de 
candle  out,  de  man  in  de  white  ! 

REUBEN.  Say,  don't  tell  me  any  of  that.  Look  here!  See 
that  open  window?  Why,  de  wind  coming  in  there  just  came 
a-floating  along  here  and  gently  coming  to  the  candle,  it  blew 
out  the  light.  Say,  don't  work  any  of  your  scare  business  on 
me.  I'm  not  scared  of  nothing,  I'm  not ! 

JOEY.  No,  bossa,  sure,  de  man  in  de  white,  he  come ! 
Look  !  (Gets  behind  table.)  Four  want-a-millions,  he  go  dis- 
away.  (Raises  candle  up  and  down.}  Four  coffin  nails,  dis- 
away.  (Raises  candle  in  circle  over  head.}  Four  macca- 
roonies,  he  go  disaway.  (Puts  candle  out.  As  he  puts  candle 
out,  GHOST  enters  L.,  makes  circle  of  table  and  exits  L.  JOEY 


THE    EVIL    THAT    MEN    DO    LIVES    AFTER    THEM  89 

gives  yell  and  puts  head  under  chair.  REUBEN  rushes  from 
R.  to  L.  again  and  again  until  GHOST  exits,  at  the  same  time 
yelling  at  top  of  voice.  Finally  lights  candle.  JOEY,  when 
quiet  is  restored.)  Oh,  bossa  !  bossa !  Did  you  see  the  "  Opti- 
cadelushey  "  ? 

REUBEN.  Oh  !  I  don't  know  what  I  saw,  but  I  saw  some- 
thing terrible  white  go  walking  around  the  table.  I'm  nearly 
all  scared  to  death. 

JOEY.     Yes,  boss,  de  man  in  de  white — he  come. 

REUBEN.  Come  here  and  bring  that  paper  you  wrote  on. 
(Both  come  to  front  c.,  JOEY  holding  candle  in  his  right  hand.) 
Let's  see  what  you've  written.  Say,  I  didn't  tell  you  "want- 
a-miilions " — I  said  "Watermelons."  (GHOST  enters  and 
crouches  behind  the  two  ;  pinches  REUBEN'S  legs.)  Say,  will 
you  stop  pinching  my  leg  ! 

JOEY.     I  no  pincha  your  leg,  boss. 

REUBEN.  Well,  don't  do  it  again,  that's  all,  I  tell  you ! 
Say,  look  here,  I  didn't  say  "coffin  nails" — I  said  "coffee 
pails."  What's  the  matter  with  you  anyhow?  Look  here, 
you  stop  pinching  my  legs  or  I'll  just  sail  into  you  and  hurt 
you.  Say,  what's  this  ?  (GHOST  taps  JOEY  on  shoulders,  takes 
candle  and  stands  in  his  place  by  REUBEN.  JOEY,  scared  to 
death,  makes  comical  exit,  L.)  I  said  "Four  Mushrooms!  " 
Hold  that  candle  nearer  so  that  I  can  read.  I  said  "Four 
Mushrooms,"  and  you  put  down  "Four  Maccaronies. "  Say, 
you're  my  partner  no  longer.  You're  fired.  You  get 

(Looks  around  and  sees  GHOST'S  face  ;  comical  exit,  L.) 


CURTAIN 


Chips  Off  the  Old  Block 


CHARACTERS 

UNCLE  No.  i John  P.  Hipp,  Sr. 

BOY  No.  i    .         .         .         .                   .  John  P.  Hipp,  Jr. 

UNCLE  No.  2 Will  B.  Bone,  Sr. 

BOY  No.  2 Will  B.  Bone,  Jr. 

SCENE.—  A  street. 

Enter  two  BOYS  from  R.  and  L.  reading  letters.     Bump  in  c. 
of  stage. 

BOY  i.     Hello,  Hipp. 

BOY  2.     Hello,  Bone. 

BOY  i.  Say,  what  do  you  think?  I  got  a  letter  from  my 
uncle,  and  he  is  coming  over  from  London,  England. 

BOY  2.  Why,  that's  funny.  I  just  got  a  letter  from  my 
uncle  and  he's  coming  from  Phoenix,  Arizona. 

BOY  i.  Ooh  !  Say,  listen  here.  (Reads  from  letter.}  My 
uncle  is  in  love. 

BOY  2.     Gee,  that's  a  funny  thing  to  be  in,  ain't  it? 

BOY  i.     Yes. 

BOY  2.     Say,  I  wouldn't  be  in  love,  would  you? 

BOY  i.     No!     Why? 

BOY  2.     Because  it  costs  too  much. 

BOY  i.  Sure!  Say,  my  uncle's  "fiency"  is  named  Ma- 
tilda Brown. 

BOY  2.  Gee,  that's  funny,  my  uncle's  fiancee  is  named 
Matilda  Green. 

BOY  i.     My  uncle  says  his  girl  "has  soft,  baby-blue  eyes." 

BOY  2.     And  mine  has  "curly,  golden  locks." 

BOY  i.  And  my  uncle  says  his  has  two  thousand  a  year. 
Gee,  I'm  going  to  ask  him  for  two  bits  of  that. 

BOY  2.  And  my  uncle  says  his  is  not  rich  but  has  prospects. 
What  does  he  mean  ?  Hey  ? 

BOY  i.  I  dunno,  but  my  uncle  says  he's  coming  to  find  me 
on  the  three-thirty  train.  Gee,  it's  that  now. 

91 


92  CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK 

BOY  2.  And  mine's  coming  on  the  same  train.  (Whistle 
sound  without.')  There's  the  whistle  now.  Let's  go  down 
and  meet  them.  [Exit  both,  L. 

UNCLE  i  (entering).  I  do  wonder  where  I  am.  Ah,  I  am  so 
dreadfully  cold  and  hungry.  I  have  been  wandering  around 

such  a  long  time.  I  meant  to  arrive  in (name  of  local 

town)  about  three-forty-five.  I  got  an  early  train,  and  have  been 
walking  around  and  could  find  no  one.  I  am  dreadfully  cold. 
If  I  did  not  keep  thinking  of  my  darling  I  should  be  much 
colder.  (Seats  himself  on  grip  in  middle  of  stage.)  I  wish 
some  one  would  come. 

UNCLE  2  (entering,  L.,  walking  slowly  up  to  UNCLE  i). 
Say,  pard,  have  you  got  the  makings  ? 

UNCLE  i.  You  must  think  it  very  stupid,  but  I  do  not 
understand  you.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

UNCLE  2.     Have  you  got  the  makings  ? 

UNCLE  i.     The  makings  !     I  don't  comprehend. 

UNCLE  2.     Have  you  got  a  chew  of  tobacco  ? 

UNCLE  i  (rising).  Oh,  no  !  My  grandmother  never  al- 
lowed me  to  smoke  and  my  dear  Aunt  Martha 

UNCLE  2.     Was  afraid  to  go  home  in  the  dark. 

UNCLE  i.  Oh  !  No,  no  !  I'll  tell  you.  I  came  down  to 

see  my  nephew  who  is  being  educated  in  the  (local 

name)  Military  Academy. 

UNCLE  2.  Why,  I've  a  nephew  in  the  same  place.  My 
name  is  Bone. 

UNCLE  i.  Mine  is  Hipp.  Hipp-Bone.  Ha,  ha!  Say,  do 
you  know  I  like  your  face  ?  You've  such  an  honest,  simple, 
open  face.  I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  came  down  to  see  my 
nephew.  I  am  in  love.  I  am  in  love  with  the  dearest  girl — I 
can  hardly  stop  thinking  of  that  precious  lump  of  butter.  Her 
name,  so  uncommon,  is  Matilda  Brown,  and  she  has,  oh,  the 
most  beautiful  baby-blue  eyes. 

UNCLE  2.     She  has,  has  she  ? 

Bov  2  (coming  in  with  a  rush,  feints  at  some  one  in  the 
scene  and  hollers).  Come  on,  come  on  !  Oh,  you  will,  will 
you  ?  Come  on  ! 

(The  two  UNCLES  crouch,  holding  on  to  each  other  at  L.) 

UNCLE  i.     Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger? 

UNCLE  2.     Oh,  no !     That  is  the  way  the  boys  in  • 

(local  town)  always  do. 

UNCLE  i.     You  speak  to  him. 


CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK  93 

UNCLE  2.     No,  you  speak  to  him. 

UNCLE  i  (walking  timidly  up  to  BOY  2).  Ah  !  How  do 
you  do,  my  boy  ?  Ah  !  How  do  you  do?  (Holds  out  hand, 
one  finger  extended ;  BOY  2  hangs  hat  on  finger.')  Oh,  no, 
no  !  I  have  a  hat,  thank  you.  Excuse  me,  deah  boy  !  I  am 
hunting  for  a  nephew — a  boy  who  is  in  this  town  and  I'd  like 
to  give  a  boy  two  shillings  to  take  my  luggage  and  my  bags  to 
the  hotel,  and  if  you'd  like  to  do  this,  my  boy 

BOY  2.     Ah,  quit  yer  kiddin',  will  you  ?    Quit  your  kiddin'. 

UNCLE  i.     What's  that?     I  don't  understand. 

BOY  2.     Nothing  didding,  see — nothing  didding. 

UNCLE  i.  I  do  not  seem  to  be  getting  along  very  well. 
You  talk  to  him. 

UNCLE  2  (walking  up  to  BOY  2).  Say,  kid,  just  take  this 
package  up  to  the  hotel  and  I  will  give  you  two-bits. 

BOY  2.     Two-bits  !     All  right,  slip  it  over. 

UNCLE  2.     Take  it  up  C.  O.  D. 

BOY  2.  No  ye  don't.  Slip  it  over.  I  don't  want  no  rubber 
money. 

UNCLE  2  (handing  him  money}.  Here  you  are.  Now  take 
this  up  in  a  hurry.  D'ye  hear? 

UNCLE  i.  I  say,  did  you  say  that  you  were  going  to  give 
the  boy  two-bits  ?  Two  bits  of  what  ? 

UNCLE  2  (snickering).     Two  bits  of  cake. 

UNCLE  i.  What  ?  Is  the  poor  boy  hungry  ?  I  should  have 
been  delighted  to  give  him  twenty-five  cents  myself.  Now, 
let's  be  off  to  see  this  town.  By  the  way,  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  Matilda.  [Exeunt. 

BOY  2  (taking  grips}.  Gee,  this  is  easy  money.  I  wonder 
if  there  is  anything  breakable  in  these?  (Throws  each  grip  on 
floor  in  front — one  should  have  glass  in  it — and  makes  a  seat. 
Enter  BOY  i.)  Say,  kid,  I  saw  your  uncle.  Ooh  !  He's  a 
funny  old  coot!  He's  got  side  whiskers  and  he  has  a  "hey 
glass, "  and  he  says  to  me,  says  he,  "  Say,  boy,  I  will  give  you 
two  shillings  if  you  will  take  my  luggage  up  to  the  hotel." 

BOY  i.     I  am  in  on  the  money. 

BOY  2.     No,  ye  don't.     Didn't  I  get  the  money? 

BOY  i.  Well,  ain't  he  my  uncle  as  much  as  yours?  Look 
out,  here  they  come. 

(BOYS  run  off  with  packages  ;  UNCLES  come  in  chatter  ing. ~) 

UNCLE  i.  Yes,  that  was  the  time  I  made  up  to  Matilda.  I 
told  you  about  those  dear  blue  eyes.  Mind  you,  they're  not 


94  CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK 

exactly  blue,  but  light.  I  call  them  baby-blue,  because  they're 
so  young  and  light  colored.  Were  you  ever  in  love? 

UNCLE  2.     No;  never  truly  ! 

UNCLE  i.     Oh,  deah  !     Has  no  one  ever  loved  you? 

UNCLE  2.     Not  that  I  know  of ! 

UNCLE  i.  How  truly  pitiful !  Then  perhaps  you  can't  ap- 
preciate how  hard  it  was  for  me — for  me  to — to  pop  the  ques- 
tion to  my  fair  Matilda.  Oh,  deah  !  It  took  so  long — yeahs, 
yeahs — but  one  day,  I  remember  it  so  well,  I  shall  never  forget 
it.  We  were  having  tea  together,  and  she  dropped  a  lump  of 
sugar  and  I  picked  it  up  and  said  :  "  Shall  I  put  it  in  your  tea? 
You  don't  need  it  though  !  "  And  then — and  then — she  said  : 
"  Why?  "  And  I  said,  "  You're  sweet  enough  already;  "  see, 
"  you're  sweet  enough  already,"  and  she  dropped  her  eyes  and 
then,  would  you  believe  it,  I — I — crept  up  behind  her — and 
leaned  right  over  her  rich  brown  curly  hair  and — and — what 
do  you  think  ?  I  kissed — I  kissed — one  of  those  beautiful  blue 
eyes. 

UNCLE  2  (aside).     There  goes  those  blue  eyes  again  ! 

UNCLE  i.  I  wonder  if  there  is  a  cathedral  in (local 

town)  ?  Let's  go  and  see  the  cathedral. 

UNCLE  2.     Yes,  and  the  chicken  coops,  too. 

(UNCLE  i  and  2  start  to  walk  out  at  R.,  and  see  a 
sign,  "  Squaw  Skookerjink,  Fortune-teller  and  Indian 
Dancer'') 

Enter  BOYS  together  L.  rear,  and  listen. 

UNCLE  i.  "Squaw  Skookerjink,  Fortune-teller  and  Indian 
Dancer."  What  do  you  say?  Let's  have  our  fortune  told  ! 

UNCLE  2.     That's  it.     We'll  find  the  old  lady. 

UNCLE  i.  Now,  wait !  I'll  bet  you  one,  no,  two  shillings, 
two  shillings,  mind  you,  that  the  Squaw  fortune-teller  will  not 
know  Matilda's  name  ? 

UNCLE  2.  Two  shillings?  What's  that,  anyhow?  Two 
dollars? 

UNCLE  i.  Oh,  ho!  ho!  ho!  that's  too  much.  Two  shil- 
lings— fifty  cents.  I'll  wager  fifty  cents  that  the  fortune-teller 
doesn't  know  Matilda's  name, — or  that  she  has  blue  eyes. 

UNCLE  2.  All  right !  I'll  bet  you  the  fifty  cents.  Let's  go 
and  find  her.  [Exeunt,  L. 

BOY  i.     Here's  a  chance  to  make  some  money — you  be  it ! 

BOY  2.     What?     Me  be  the  old  lady  !     No,  ye  don't ! 


CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK  95 

BOY  i.     Sure,  you  be  it.     We  can  fool  the  old  coots  easy. 
BOY  2.     Ooh  !     I  know.     I  got  an  old  costume  home, — hey 
— I'll  go  down  and  put  it  on,  hey  ? 

BOY  i.     Sure  !     Hurry  up.     Here  they  come  back. 

[Exit  BOY  2. 
Enter  UNCLES,  L. 

UNCLE  i.     Here's  a  boy.     Maybe  he  knows  where  she  is. 

UNCLE  2.  Say,  kid,  do  you  know  where  old  lady  Skooker- 
jee  is? 

BOY  i.  Of  course  I  know.  She's  out— she's  gone  down  to 
the  store. 

UNCLE  2.     Will  you  go  and  get  her? 

BOY  i.     What's  in  it?     (Holds  out  hand.) 

UNCLE  2.     Nothing.     I'll  make  it  all  right. 

BOY  i.  Well,  I'll  go  anyhow,  but  you  ought  to  give  me 
something.  [Exit. 

UNCLE  i.  Will  he  bring  the  Squaw  Skookerjink?  I  am  so 
anxious  to  have  my  fortune  told.  I  do  wonder  if  she  will  speak 
of  my  dear  adored  ? 

UNCLE  2.     Oh  !     She'll  speak  of  her  all  right.     They  all  do. 

UNCLE  i.  Ah  !  but  she'll  never  guess  her  name — it  is  so 
uncommon,  Matilda  Brown.  I  never  heard  of  any  one  with 
that  name  before.  Did  you  ? 

UNCLE  2.  No  !  The  nearest  I  heard  of  it  was  of  a  girl  I 
know — Matilda  Green  ! 

UNCLE  i.  Yes,  but  green  is  very  different  from  brown  ! 
Green  is  a  very  common  color — and  brown  is  rich — and  oh  ! 
then  brown — Matilda  Brown,  with  blue — heavenly  blue — baby- 
blue  eyes.  Oh  !  How  the  longing  grows.  Here  they  come. 

(The  BOYS  enter.  BOY  2  is  dressed  as  a  woman,  with  a 
long  black  hair  wig  covering  his  face,  and  a  shawl  of 
bright  color,  holding  it  tight.  The  other  ROY  gets  a  chair, 
places  it  in  c.,  and  the  "  SQUAW  "  ts  seated.} 

BOY  i.  Here  she  is.  I  got  her.  It  was  hard  finding  to  get 
her  here. 

(He  then  takes  out  UNCLE'S  letter  and  gets  behind  chair.} 

UNCLE  2.  Here  she  is.  Now,  you  get  your  fortune  told 
first. 

UNCLE  i.  All  right,  but  now  don't  forget  that  fifty  cents 
wager.  (Walks  up  to  SQUAW.)  Is  this  Mrs.  Skookerjink? 


96  CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK 

SQUAW.     Um,  hum  ! 

UNCLE  i.     I'd  like  to  have  my  fortune  told,  old  lady. 

BOY  i  (aside).     Tell  him  to  give  you  four  bits. 

SQUAW.     Four  bits,  please. 

UNCLE  i.  Four  bits  1  (To  other  UNCLE.)  Is  the  poor 
lady  hungry,  too? 

UNCLE  2.     No  !     She  says  to  give  her  fifty  cents. 

UNCLE  i.  Oh!  Fifty  cents.  (Hands  money '.)  All  right, 
old  lady.  Go  ahead  ! 

(SQUAW  takes  hand.) 
BOY  i  (aside).     Tickle  it. 

(SQUAW  tickles  hand.) 

UNCLE  i .  Here,  here  !  (Laughs  and  rubs  leg  with  other 
leg.)  None  of  that,  old  lady. 

BOY  i  (aside).     Tell  him  it  needs  a  wash  ! 
SQUAW.     Your  hand  needs  a  good  washing  ! 

(Thrusts  it  away.) 

UNCLE  i.  What's  that?  (Looks  at  hand.  To  UNCLE  2, 
who  is  convulsed  with  laughter.)  What  the  devil  are  you 
laughing  at  ? 

UNCLE  2.     I — I — was  thinking  of  those  blue  eyes. 

UNCLE  i.  Well,  tell  me  something  about  my  fortune,  old 
lady. 

(SQUAW  takes  hand.) 

BOY  i  (aside).     Tell  him  (looking  at  letter)  he's  in  love. 

SQUAW.     You're  in  love  ! 

UNCLE  i.  Yes,  yes,  that's  right — that's  right.  Anything 
else? 

BOY  i  (aside,  reading  from  letter).  Her  name  is  Matilda 
Brown. 

SQUAW.     Her  name  is  Matilda  Brown. 

UNCLE  i.  What !  (Walks  quickly  to  UNCLE  2,  dragging 
SQUAW  off  seat.)  Now,  how  the  devil  did  she  know  her  name 
was  Matilda  Brown  ? 

UNCLE  2.  That's  wonderful,  all  right.  There  goes  your 
fifty  cents. 

(SQUAW  has  quickly  righted  himself  and  takes  hand  again.) 


CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK  97 

UNCLE  i.     Well,  old  lady,  anything  else? 

BOY  i  (aside).     Tell  him  she  has  beautiful  blue  eyes. 

SQUAW.     She  has  beautiful  blue  eyes. 

UNCLE  i.  That's  right.  That's  right.  She  has— she  has 
— heavenly  blue  eyes.  It's  wonderful — it's  wonderful — the  old 
squaw's  intuition.  Well,  anything  else? 

BOY  i  (aside).     Tell  him  he  has  a  nephew  in  this  town. 

SQUAW.     You  have  a  nephew  in  this  town. 

UNCLE  i.     Yes,  that's  right.     That's  right. 

BOY  i  (aside).     Treat  him  well. 

SQUAW.     Treat  him  well. 

UNCLE  i.     I  will !     I  will ! 

BOY  i  (aside).     Give  him  two  bits. 

SQUAW.     Give  him  two  bits. 

UNCLE  i.     Yes,  yes;  he  shall  have  all  the  cake  he  can  eat. 

BOY  i  (aside).     That's  all. 

SQUAW.     That's  all. 

UNCLE  i.  Well,  old  lady,  that's  wonderful — wonderful — I 
must  say.  (To  UNCLE  2.)  Now  you  have  your  fortune  told. 

UNCLE  2.  No,  I'd  rather  see  an  Indian  dance.  Say,  old 
lady,  do  you  dance? 

SQUAW  (to  BOY  i).     Say,  do  I  dance? 

BOY  i .     Sure  you  do  ! 

SQUAW.     What  do  you  think  I  am,  anyway  ? 

BOY  i.     Sure,  do  it.     Tell  him  a  dollar,  please. 

SQUAW.     All  right.     One  dollar,  please. 

UNCLE  2.  A  dollar  !  Well,  here  it  is.  Now,  give  us  a 
dance. 

BOY  i.     Wait;  I'll  get  some  noise. 

(Runs  to  side  and  comes  with  a  cymbal  on  string  and  piece 
of  iron.  SQUAW  begins  a  slow,  measured  Indian  Dance, 
gradually  increasing  in  speed  and  wild  yells.  BOY  i  beat- 
ing gong  and  yelling.  UNCLE  2  joins  in  cross-stage  dance. 
After  twice  across  the  stage,  SQUAW  kicks  at  UNCLE  i, 
and  with  wild  yells  drives  him  backward  across  the  stage, 
At  last,  SQUAW  unties  string  holding  up  dress  and  gar- 
ment drops  off,  wig  going  at  same  time.  BOY  2  stands: 
revealed.  Tableau :  UNCLE  2,  R.  ;  UNCLE  i,  L.  ;  BOY  i 
on  chair?) 

UNCLE  2.     What's  this — an  impostor? 

UNCLE  i.     We've  been  imposed  upon.     It's  the  beggarly 


98  CHIPS    OFF    THE    OLD    BLOCK 

boy  who  took  my  baggage  to  the  hotel  and  broke  everything 
inside. 

(Both  UNCLES  grab  their  nephews.     BOYS/#//  on  knees.} 

BOYS  (together).     Don't  you  know  us,  uncle? 

UNCLES.     Uncle !     What  ? 

BOY  i.     I'm  your  loving  nephew. 

EOY  2.     And  I'm  your  loving  nephew. 

UNCLE  i.  Why  are  you  not  at  school  in  the Mili- 
tary Academy  ? 

BOY  i.     The  teacher's  sick,  uncle. 

UNCLE  i.     The  man  is  sick? 

BOY  i.     It's  a  lady,  uncle. 

UNCLE  i.     A  lady  !     A  lady  in  a  military  academy? 

BOY  i.  Why,  yes,  uncle.  This  is  not  England,  don't  you 
know. 

UNCLE  i.     And  her  name? 

BOY  i.     Matilda  Brown. 

UNCLE  i.  Matilda  Brown — Matilda  Brown !  (Faints.) 
Take  me  back — back  to  those  beautiful  blue  eyes  ! 

UNCLE  2.  Yes,  take  him  back.  May  I  never  see  blue  eyes 
again  ! 


CURTAIN 


The  Tramp  Barbers 


CHARACTERS 

I.  CUTTEM,  a  barber. 
SLIPPERY  PETE,  a  tramp. 
OVERLAND  LOUIE,  another  tramp. 
CHAUNCEY  ST.  JOHN,  an  Englishman. 
"  BAT  "  THOMPSON,  a  tough. 
GIUSEPPE  GARIBALDI,  an  Italian. 
PATRICK  O'RAFFERTY,  an  Irishman. 

SCENE. — A  barber  shop.  Table,  c. ;  barber's  chair  and  an- 
other chair  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table,  the  barber*  s  chair 
R.  Barber" s  outfit,  mug,  razors,  towel,  sheet,  etc. 

(I.  CUTTEM  discovered  mixing  lather  in  mug.) 

CUTTEM.  Looks  like  a  busy  day  to-day.  I  ought  to  do  a 
big  business.  There'll  be  a  big  crowd  here  to  see  the  baseball 
game,  and  I  suppose  a  lot  of  these  young  sports  will  want  to 
get  their  faces  cleaned  to  take  their  best  girls  out.  (Looks  into 
table  drawer?)  Gee,  I  need  some  soap.  I  guess  I'll  have  to 
hurry  down  town  and  get  some  right  away  before  the  crowd 
comes. 

(Takes  off  white  coat,  puts  on  regular  coat  and  hat  and 
exit,  R.) 

Enter  SLIPPERY  PETE. 

PETE.  Ssh !  Ssh !  Quiet,  quiet.  Come  inside.  (Enter 
OVERLAND  LOUIE,  who  trips  and  falls.)  Get  up,  get  up,  we'll 
get  caught. 

LOUIE.     Gee,  I  knew  I'd  fall.     I  didn't  see  the  last  step. 

PETE.  Oh,  you  never  see  anything.  Come  on,  get  busy, 
look  around  here  now. 

LOUIE.     You're  always  picking  on  me. 

PETE.  Never  mind,  get  busy.  Go  over  and  look  and  see 
what's  in  those  boxes. 

99 


IOO  THE    TRAMP    BARBERS 

(They  go  to  opposite  sides  of  stage.  LOUIE  wanders  about 
and  comes  back  to  the  table  ;  picks  up  mug  with  brush  and 
sticks  brush  in  his  mouth.') 

LOUIE.     Ooh,  look  at  the  cream-puff  stuffings. 

PETE  (rushing  over  pulls  his  hand  away).  That's  not 
cream-puff  stuffings,  you  boob,  that's  shaving  soap. 

LOUIE.     Oooh,  gee,  it  tickles  my  tongue.     (He  sputters?) 

PETE.     Do  you  know  where  we  are  ? 

LOUIE.     No,  where  are  we? 

PETE.  We're  in  a  barber  shop.  Now  listen,  we're  going  to 
be  barbers.  I'll  be  the  cashier  and  you'll  be  the  head  barber. 

LOUIE.  Head  barber !  Why,  I  don't  even  know  what  a 
barber  is. 

PETE.     What !     You  don't  know  what  a  barber  is? 

LOUIE.  Oh,  gee,  yes;  I  almost  forgot.  I  know  what  a 
barber  is.  A  barber  is  a  fellow  that  comes  from  Barbaria. 

PETE.  No,  you  boob,  a  barber  is  a  fellow  that  gives  another 
fellow  a  shave. 

LOUIE.     A  shave  ? 

PETE.  Yes,  that's  what  I  said,  a  shave.  He  cuts  the  soap 
off  another  fellow's  face. 

LOUIE.  Don't  get  excited,  I  know,  I  know.  He  cuts  the 
face  off  another  fellow's  soap. 

PETE.     No  !     He  cuts  the  soap  off  another  fellow's  face. 

LOUIE  {picking  up  a  razor).     Oh,  gee,  what's  this  ? 

PETE.     That's  a  razor. 

LOUIE.     A  razor  !     How  does  it  raise  her  ? 

PETE.  It  doesn't  raise  her,  it's  a  razor.  Say,  when  will 
you  ever  get  anything  in  that  blockhead  of  yours  ? 

LOUIE.     You're  always  picking  on  me. 

PETE.     Never  mind  now,  get  busy. 

LOUIE.     Oh,  listen.     Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  my  father? 

PETE.     No,  what  about  your  father? 

LOUIE.  He  used  to  be  a  barber.  One  day  a  fellow  came 
in  to  get  a  shave,  and  while  my  father  was  shaving  him  he 
accidentally  cut  his  nose  off.  My  father  got  all  excited  and 
dropped  the  razor.  The  razor  fell  on  the  fellow's  toe  and  cut 
his  toe  off.  Oh,  my  father  got  still  more  nervous  and  excited 
and  quickly  picked  up  the  fellow's  nose  and  stuck  it  where  his 
toe  should  be,  and  stuck  his  toe  where  his  nose  should  be,  and 
now  every  time  the  fellow  wants  to  blow  his  nose  he  has  to  take 
his  shoe  off. 


THE    TPAMP-  BARBERS,  IOI 

PETE.  Enough  of  that.  Enough  of  that,  now.  You're  al- 
ways spoiling  everything  with  your  jokes. 

LOUIE.     Ugh  !     You're  always  picking  on  me. 

PETE.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  We'd  be  down  to  Los  Angeles 
now  if  it  wasn't  on  account  of  you. 

LOUIE.     Me  ? 

PETE.  Yes,  you.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  duck  when  you  saw 
the  brakeman  coming?  I  ducked,  didn't  I  ? 

LOUIE.  Ugh  1  You're  always  picking  on  me.  I  sat  there 
just  as  you  told  me  until  the  brakeman  came.  I  didn't  mind 
him  throwing  the  shoe  at  me,  but  he  forgot  to  take  his  foot  out. 

PETE.     Yes.     Well,  how  about  that  huckleberry  pie  ? 

LOUIE.  Every  time  you  say  huckleberry  pie  to  me  I  feel 
like  a  hole  in  a  doughnut. 

PETE.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  open  the  gate  gently,  walk  up 
the  path,  carefully  grab  the  pie  off  the  window  sill  and  hurry 
back?  But  what  did  you  do?  You  stuck  your  face  in  it, 
didn't  you? 

LOUIE.  Ooh  !  I  never  did.  I  opened  the  gate  as  you  told 
me,  walked  up  the  path,  came  up  to  the  pie  and  was  just  about 
to  grab  it,  when  the  lady  up  on  the  top  floor  threw  a  broom  at 
me  and  my  face  went  in  the  huckleberry  pie. 

PETE.     Yes,  and  how  about  that  dog  ? 

LOUIE.  Don't  say  dog  to  me  !  Every  time  you  say  dog  I 
feel  in  pieces. 

PETE.     Well,  what  did  you  let  the  dog  grab  you  for? 

LOUIE.  Ooh,  I  never  did.  While  I  was  up  smelling  the 
huckleberry  pie,  the  dog  smelt  me  and  thought  I  was  the 
huckleberry  pie  and  he  got  me. 

PETE.  You  can't  make  me  believe  that.  Never  mind,  now ; 
get  this  barber's  coat  on. 

{Business  of  puffing  on  coat,  hand  in  wrong  sleeve,  etc.) 

LOUIE.  Oh,  gee,  this  is  a  swell  coat.  I  guess  I'll  go  to  the 
picnic  in  this. 

PETE.     Never  mind  about  the  picnic,  you're  going  to  shave. 

Enter  CHAUNCEY  ST.  JOHN. 

ST.  JOHN.     I  say,  me  mon.     Is  this  a  shaving  parlor? 
LOUIE.     No,  it's  a  barber  shop. 

ST.  JOHN.  Well,  what's  the  difference  ?  Let  us  not  quibble. 
(Takes  off  hat  and  hands  it  to  LOUIE.  LOUIE  plays  with  hat 


IO2  THE    TRAMP    BARBERS 

and  puts  it  on.     ST.  JOHN  stops  him.}    I  say,  me  mon,  you 
must  take  that  off. 

( LOUIE  takes  off  hat.     ST.  JOHN  hands  him  coat.} 

LOUIE.  Gee,  what  a  swell  coat.  I  guess  I'll  go  to  the 
picnic  in  this  one.  {Goes  to  put  it  on.} 

ST.  JOHN  (to  PETE).  What's  the  matter  with  this  man  any- 
how? 

PETE  (aside  to  LOUIE).  Come  on,  cut  it  out,  cut  it  out. 
Get  on  to  yourself. 

ST.  JOHN  (taking  off  collar  and  tie  and  handing  them  to 
LOUIE).  I'll  have  a  hair  cut,  a  shampoo,  my  finger  nails  mani- 
cured, my  mustache  curled,  and  a  massage.  (Sits  in  chair.) 

LOUIE.  Hey,  fellow,  how  will  you  have  it,  on  the  half  shell 
or  fried  ? 

PETE  (aside).     Keep  quiet,  keep  quiet. 

(LouiE  commences  lathering  ST.  JOHN'S  face.} 

ST.  JOHN.  Do  you  know,  I've  got  the  cutest  little  girl  in 
England,  and  her  name  is  Katie  Prior.  She's  the  dearest  little 
flower  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  And,  oh,  I  love  her  so.  I  can 
see  her  blue  eyes  before  me  now.  Look  at  them.  Look  at 
them.  Katie,  Katie,  come  to  me. 

{Rushes  to  front  of  stage  with  arms  outstretched ;  LOUIE 
follows  him.) 

LOUIE.     Hey,  that  ain't  Katie.     It's  a  bald-headed  man. 

(ST.  JOHN  returns  to  the  chair.     LOUIE  continues  lathering 
him.} 

PETE  (to  LOUIE).     Gently,  gently. 

LOUIE  (turning  to  PETE  and  continuing  to  lather  ST.  JOHN). 
I  am  going  gently.  (Puts  brush  in  ST.  JOHN'S  mouth.) 

ST.  JOHN  (springing  up}.  You  impudent  thing  !  How  dare 
you!  How  dare  you!  {Grabs  hat  and  coat.}  I'm  going 
out  and  get  the  "  Bobby  "  after  you.  [Exit. 

LOUIE  (slapping  himself  on  the  wrist).  Oh,  rudeness,  rude- 
ness. 

PETE.  Never  mind  that.  Cut  it  out.  We  lost  a  quarter 
all  on  account  of  you. 

LOUIE.  I  told  you  it  was  cream-puff  stuffings.  See,  he  tried 
to  eat  it. 


THE    TRAMP    BARBERS  103 

PETE.  Shut  up,  now.  Shut  up.  You  lost  a  quarter,  do 
you  know  it  ? 

LOUIE.     You're  always  picking  on  me. 

PETE.  You're  so  dense.  When  will  you  ever  get  anything 
in  that  head  of  yours? 

LOUIE.     What  did  I  do  ? 

PETE.  What  did  you  do  ?  When  he  began  talking  about 
his  girl  why  didn't  you  answer  him  politely  ?  You're  a  barber 
now,  and  you  have  to  know  how  to  talk  to  people.  You  should 
have  said  something  nice  about  his  girl. 

LOUIE.     How  could  I  when  I  never  even  saw  his  girl  before  ? 

PETE.     Never  mind  now,  you've  got  to  use  your  imagination. 

LOUIE.  I  know  what  I'll  do.  The  next  fellow  that  comes 
in  here  I'll  like  his  girl. 

PETE.     I  don't  care  what  you  do;  do  something. 

Enter  «BAT"  THOMPSON. 

THOMP.  Hurry  up,  guy,  give  us  a  shave,  or  I'll  tear  the 
shingles  off  your  roof. 

(Sits  in  chair.     LOUIE  goes  over  to  PETE  and  hands  him  the 
brush.} 

LOUIE  (to  PETE).  You  shave  him ;  I  don't  like  the  looks 
of  that  guy. 

PETE.     No,  you  go  ahead ;  you  shave  him. 
THOMP.     Hurry  up,  now ;  hurry  up. 
LOUIE.     All  right,  fellow,  don't  get  subsited. 

(Approaches  cautiously  to  shave  him.     Begins  to  put  on 
lather.} 

THOMP.     Say,  kid,  I'm  a  fighter ;  you  know  it  ? 

LOUIE.     A  fighter  !     Did  you  ever  have  a  fight  ? 

THOMP.  Don't  get  funny  now.  Don't  get  funny.  See  these? 
(Shows  muscle.}  I  eat  mush  for  breakfast. 

LOUIE.     Brrrrh.     I'm  going  to  eat  mush. 

THOMP.  Say,  kid,  you  should  have  been  at  the  last  fight. 
I  got  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  ran  seven  miles,  came 
back  and  sparred  five  rounds  with  my  partner,  then  ate  a  great 
big  bowl  of  mush.  Then  I  went  up  to  the  ring.  Gee,  the 
house  was  packed  full. 

LOUIE.     Of  mush  ? 

THOMP.     No  !     People,  you  boob  you. 


IO4  THE    TRAMP    BARBERS 

LOUIE.     Oh,  people's  mushes. 

THOMP.     We  were  fighting  for  a  purse  full  of 

LOUIE.     Mush. 

THOMP.     No  !     You  boob  you  !     Twenties. 

LOUIE.     Oh,  twenty  mushes. 

THOMP.  And  you  should  have  seen  my  girl,  Minnie.  She 
was  sitting  down  there  in  the  front  row  eating  a  great  big  bag 
of 

LOUIE.     Mush. 

THOMP.     No  !     Peanuts.     Hurry  up,  give  me  a  shave. 

LOUIE.  Oh,  gee.  This  fellow  talks  so  much  about  mush 
he's  got  me  talking  mushy,  too. 

PETE.     Never  mind,  get  busy ;  hurry  up. 

LOUIE.  Huh,  huh.  I'm  going  to  do  it.  I'm  going  to  do 
it  now.  Say,  fellow,  I  like  your  girl. 

THOMP.  You  what !  (Jumps  up.}  You  like  my  girl,  do 
you  ?  Take  that  and  that. 

(Knocks  LOUIE  down  and  exit.  PETE  picks  up  LOUIE  and 
goes  to  front  of  stage  with  him.  LOUIE  points  out  to  au- 
dience, counting.) 

LOUIE.  One,  two,  three.  Look  at  the  big  blue  one  over 
there. 

PETE.     Did  he  hurt  you  ?     Did  he  hurt  you  ? 

LOUIE.  That  fellow  hit  me  so  hard  he  knocked  me  sensible. 
I'm  going  out  to  fight  that  fellow.  (Goes  toward  door.}  Hey, 
come  back.  1  eat  mush  !  (Noise  outside.  PETE  and  LOUIE 
run  to  opposite  side  of  stage  and  seize  each  other.)  He  took 
three  steps  backward.  I  wish  he'd  hit  me  again.  You  know 
why? 

PETE.     No,  why? 

LOUIE.     I  saw  diamonds. 

PETE.     Never  mind,  you'll  do  better  next  time. 

Enter  GIUSEPPE  GARIBALDI. 

LOUIE  (looking  at  GARL).  Brrrh,  I'm  a-scared  of  bull- 
dogs. 

GARI.  (sitting  in  chair).     Come,  boy.     Give  me  shave. 

PETE.     Go  ahead,  shave  him.     Hurry  up. 

GARI.     Say,  boy,  can  you  sing? 

LOUIE  (going  to  front  of  stage).  I  ask  myself  if  I  can  sing, 
and  I  say,  "  Yes."  (Goes  back  to  chair.)  Sure  I  can  sing. 
What  are  you  going  to  sing  ? 


THE    TRAMP    BARBERS  IO5 

GARI.     Can  you  sing  Santa  Lucia? 

LOUIE.     In  the  Shade  of  the  Old  Apple  Tree  ?     Sure. 

(Both  commence  to  sing,  each  his  own  song.      Wild  discord.) 

GARI.     Oh,  you  can't  sing.     What  you  sing  now? 
LOUIE.     Oh,  I  told  myself  a  lie. 
GARI.     Come,  hurry  up,  shave  me. 

(LouiE  commences  to  lather  him.  GARI.,  who  has  on  a 
"  trick  wig,"  makes  his  hair  rise.  LOUIE  drops  his  brush 
and  runs  over  to  where  PETE  is  sitting ;  crouches  behind 
him  shouting  in  terror. ) 

PETE.     What's  the  matter  ?     What's  the  matter  ? 

LOUIE.  Did  you  see  that  ?  His  head  kept  bouncing  up  and 
down. 

PETE.  Bouncing  up  and  down?  What  are  you  talking 
about  ? 

LOUIE.     Sure,  bouncing  up  and  down.     Oooooooh  ! 

PETE.  You're  all  excited.  That  fellow  beat  you  up  badly. 
You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Sit  down  and  rest 
up.  Give  me  the  brush.  I'll  shave  this  fellow.  Watch  me. 

(Goes  over  to  GARI.,  and  commences  to  lather  him.  The 
wig  works  again.  PETE  more  excited  than  LOUIE.  They 
rush  about  the  stage  holding  each  other  and  staring. 
GARI.  gets  impatient.) 

GARI.     Come  on,  give  me  shave.     I  wait  all  day. 

LOUIE  (holding  tight  to  PETE).  Shut  up ;  you've  got  a  rub- 
ber head. 

GARI.  What  you  say  ?  I  got  rubber  head  ?  You  call  me 
rubber  head  I  kill  you.  Bah  !  Bah  !  Macaroni !  Spaghetti ! 

[Exit. 

LOUIE.  Gee,  that  was  a  funny  guy.  Didn't  he  have  a  funny 
head  ?  Did  you  see  it  go  up  and  down  ? 

PETE.     Did  I  see  it  ? 

LOUIE.     His  hair  came  up  and  tickled  my  nose. 

PETE.     What  did  he  say  when  he  was  going  out  ? 

LOUIE.     He  was  playing  doggie,  I  guess. 

PETE.     Playing  doggie  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

LOUIE.     Didn't  you  hear  him  say  bow-wow,  bow-wow? 

PETE.  Nevermind.  There's  another  quarter  gone.  We've 
got  to  do  better  than  this. 


IO6  THE    TRAMP    BARBERS 

LOUIE.     It  wasn't  my  fault.     You're  always  picking  on  me. 

Enter  PATRICK  O'RAFFERTY,   singing,    "  Oh,  I  won't  come 
home  until  morning"  and  dancing.     He  embraces  LOUIE. 

O'RAF.  Hello,  Pat !     And  are  ye  going  to  the  ball? 

LOUIE.  Going  to  the  ball  ?     What  ball  ?     Baseball  ? 

O'RAF.  No,  to  the  Irishman's  ball. 

LOUIE.  Oh,  sure,  sure. 

(O'RAF.  goes  over  to  PETE  and  embraces  him,  too.) 

O'RAF.     And  are  ye  going  to  the  ball  ? 
PETE.     Sure. 

O'RAF.     And  who  are  ye  going  to  take  with  ye  ? 
PETE.     I'm  going  to  take  Lizzie. 

O'RAF.  Thot's  good.  Now,  I  want  a  shave,  and  a  good 
wan,  too.  (Sits.)  My  girl  Rosie  doesn't  like  splinters. 

(LouiE  commences  to  lather  him.) 
LOUIE.     How  do  you  want  it,  wet  or  dry  ? 
(Rubs  O'RAF. 's  bald  head.) 

O'RAF.  Sure,  plenty  of  water  to  make  it  grow.  (LouiE 
makes  two  strokes  with  the  razor,  one  on  each  side  of  the  face, 
then  with  a  towel  wipes  the  paint  off .  O'RAF.  rises.)  Say, 
thot's  the  best  shave  I've  had  in  years.  Now,  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  pay  you  fellows,  won't  I? 

LOUIE.     Sure. 

O'RAF.     Who's  the  boss  here? 

PETE.     I  am. 

O'RAF.  Then  here's  the  quarter  for  ye.  (To  LOUIE.) 
Here's  ten  cents  for  you.  Now  for  the  ball. 

(Exit  singing,  "I  won't  get  home  until  morning  "     LOUIE 
tries  to  imitate  his  dancing,  and  falls  down.     He  gets  up.) 

LOUIE.     Ooh  !     I  never  could  do  the  tango. 
PETE.     Come  on,  now,  let's  see  how  much  money  we've  got. 
We've  got  to  get  out  of  here  or  we'll  get  caught. 

(They  begin  to  count  the  money.) 

Enter  CUTTEM. 
CUTTEM.     Well,  if  this  isn't  the  height  of  gall !     Two  tramps 


THE    TRAMP    BARBERS  IO7 

trying  to  run  my  barber  shop.  I'll  get  these  fellows  and  have 
them  put  in  the  lock-up.  (To  LOUIE.)  Say,  barber,  give  me 
a  shave. 

LOUIE.     Don't  get  fresh  with  the  head  barber. 

CUTTEM.     Never  mind.     Give  me  a  shave. 

(He  sits  down.  LOUIE  puts  the  sheet  around  him.  As  he 
is  doing  so  PETE  slips  up  behind  him  and  whispers.} 

PETE.  That's  the  head  barber.  We've  got  to  get  out  of 
here. 

LOUIE.  I  know  what  we'll  do.  Tie  him  to  the  chair  and 
throw  soap  in  his  face. 

(They  tie  the  sheet  tight  behind  CUTTEM.) 

CUTTEM.     Hey,  what  are  you  trying  to  do  there  ? 

LOUIE.  Don't  get  excited.  Don't  get  excited.  We're  ty- 
ing you  tight  so  in  case  we  cut  you  the  blood  won't  rush  to 
your  head.  (LouiE  goes  around  chair  and  faces  CUTTEM.) 
I  know  who  you  are.  You're  the  head  barber,  ain't  you  ? 

CUTTEM.     Yes,  I  am.     I'm  going  to  get  you  two  fellows. 

LOUIE.     And  you'll  get  this,  too. 

(Throws  the  suds  in  his  face.} 
CUTTEM.     Help !     Help  1 

(Tumbles  over  backward  in  the  chair.  The  two  tramps 
laugh  at  him.  CUTTEM  produces  a  revolver  and  shoots 
wildly  around  the  room,  struggling  in  the  sheet  while  the 
tramps  dodge  about  under  the  table,  behind  the  chairs  >  etc.} 


CURTAIN 


Two  New  Prompt  Books 

Edited  by 
GRANVILLE  BARKER 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE 

By  William  Shakespeare 

An  acting  edition  'with  a  producer's  preface  by  Granville  Barker 

With  Costume  Designs  by  Albert  Rothenstein 
As  produced  by  Lillah  McCarthy  at  the  Savoy  Theatre,  London 

An  admirable  stage  version  of  this  play  suitable  for  school  performance, 
if  desired,  under  simplified  conditions  as  to  scenery.     Mr.  Rothenstein's 
illustrations  contain  many  helpful  suggestions  as  to  costuming. 
Price,  25  cents 

TWELFTH  NIGHT 

By  William  Shakespeare 

An  acting  edition  with  a  producer's  preface  by  Granville  Barker 
With  Illustrations  and  Costume  Designs  by  Norman  Wilkinson 
As  produced  at  the  Savoy  Theatre,  London,  by  Lillah  McCarthy 

Uniform  in  appearance  and  style  with  the  above  and  similarly  helpful 
for  performance  by  amateurs  as  well  as  by  professional  talent. 
Price,  25  cents 

Mr.  Barker's  "  producer's  prefaces  "  are  a  trial  step  in  the  direction  of 
providing  less  experienced  actors  and  managers  of  the  great  plays  with 
the  results  of  an  expert  consideration  of  them  from  an  acting  standpoint. 
Like  Miss  Fogerty's  admirable  work  in  connection  with  the  five  plays 
listed  elsewhere,  they  are  designed  not  merely  to  answer  the  questions 
that  must  arise  but  to  put  the  inexperienced  producer  into  such  a  relation 
with  the  text  that  his  own  intelligence  will  be  able  to  cope  with  his  prob- 
lem without  help  or  suggestion.  One  learns  how  a  man  like  Mr.  Barker 
approaches  a  play  with  the  idea  of  staging  it,  and  so  how  another  may  do 
the  same  thing.  In  this  they  will  be  seen  to  be  truly  and  genuinely 
educational  as  well  as  merely  helpful. 


Sent  postpaid  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price 

Walter  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  5  Hamilton  Place 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


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are  full  of  interest  and  fun.  All  the  parts  good.  Well  suited  for  high 
school  performance.  Price,  25  cents 


THE  TIME  OF  HIS  LIFE 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  C.  Leona  Dalrymple.  Six  males,  three 
females.  Costumes,  modern ;  scenery,  two  interiors,  or  can  be  played  in 
one.  Plays  two  hours  and  a  half.  A  side-splitting  piece,  full  of  action 
and  a  sure  success  if  competently  acted.  Tom  Carter's  little  joke  of  im- 
personating the  colored  butler  has  unexpected  consequences  that  give  him 
"  the  time  of  his  life."  Very  highly  recommended  for  high  school  per- 
formance. Price,  25  cents 

THE  COLLEGE  CHAP 

A  Comedy  Drama  in  Three  Acts  by  Harry  L.  Newton  and  John 
Pierre  Roche.  Eleven  males,  seven  females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 
two  interiors.  Plays  two  and  a  half  hours.  An  admirable  play  for  ama- 
teurs. Absolutely  American  in  spirit  and  up  to  date ;  full  of  sympathetic 
interest  but  plenty  of  comedy ;  lots  of  healthy  sentiment,  but  nothing 
"  mushy."  Just  the  thing  for  high  schools  ;  sane,  effective,  and  not  dif- 
ficult. Price,  25  cents 

THE  DEACON'S  SECOND  WIFE 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  Allan  Abbott.  Six  males,  six  females. 
Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  one  interior,  one  exterior.  Plays  two  hours 
and  a  half.  A  play  of  rural  life  specially  written  for  school  performance. 
All  the  parts  are  good  and  of  nearly  equal  opportunity,  and  the  piece  is  full 
of  laughs.  Easy  to  produce  ;  no  awkward  sentimental  scenes ;  can  be 
strongly  recommended  for  high  schools.  Price,  25  cents 

THE  TEASER 

A  Rural  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  Charles  S.  Allen.  Four  male,  three 
female  characters.  Scene,  an  easy  interior,  the  same  for  all  three  acts ; 
costumes,  modern.  Plays  an  hour  and  a  half.  An  admirable  play  for 
amateurs,  very  easy  to  get  up,  and  very  effective.  Uraliah  Higgins,  a 
country  postman,  and  Drusilla  Todd  are  capital  comedy  parts,  introducing 
songs  or  specialties,  if  desired.  Plenty  of  incidental  fun. 
Price,  25  cents 

COUNTRY  FOLKS 

A  Comedy  Drama  in  Three  Acts  by  Anthony  E.  Wills.  Six  males,  five 
females.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery,  one  interior.  Plays  two  and  a 
quarter  hours.  An  effective  and  up-to-date  play  well  suited  for  amateur 
performance.  All  the  parts  good  and  fairly  even  in  point  of  opportunity ; 
the  ladies'  parts  especially  so.  Easy  to  stage,  and  well  suited  for  schools. 
Well  recommended.  Price,  25  cents 

THE  MISHAPS  OF  MINERVA 

A  Farce  in  Two  Acts  by  Bertha  Currier  Porter.  Five  males,  eight  fe- 
males. Costumes,  modern ;  scene,  an  interior.  Plays  one  and  a  half 
hours.  An  exceptionally  bright  and  amusing  little  play  of  high  class  and 
recommended  to  all  classes  of  amateur  players.  Full  of  action  and 
laughs,  but  refined.  Irish  low  comedy  part.  Strongly  endorsed. 
Price,  25  cents 


RED  ACRE  FARM 

A  Rural  Comedy  Drama  in  Three  Acts  by  Gordan  V.  May.  Seven 
males,  five  females.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery,  one  interior,  one  exte- 
rior. Plays  two  hours.  An  easy  and  entertaining  play  with  a  well-bal- 
anced cast  of  characters.  The  story  is  strong  and  sympathetic  and  the 
comedy  element  varied  and  amusing.  Barnaby  Strutt  is  a  great  7?rt  for 
a  good  comedian ;  "  Junior  "  a  close  second.  Strongly  recommend  t 
Price,  25  cents 

THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 

A  Comedy  Drama  in  Five  Acts  by  Arthur  Lewis  Tubbs.  Eight  males, 
five  females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery  not  difficult.  Plays  a  full  even- 
ing. A  very  sympathetic  piece,  of  powerful  dramatic  interest ;  strong  and 
varied  comedy  relieves  the  serious  plot.  Ralph  Underwood,  the  minister, 
is  a  great  part,  and  Roxy  a  strong  soubrette  ;  all  parts  are  good  and  full 
of  opportunity.  Clean,  bright  and  strongly  recommended. 
Price,  25  cents 

THE  COLONEL'S  MAID 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  C.  Leona  Dalrymple.  Six  males,  three 
females.  Costumes,  modern ;  scenery,  two  interiors.  Plays  a  full  even- 
ing. An  exceptionally  bright  and  amusing  comedy,  full  of  action ;  all  the 
parts  good.  Capital  Chinese  low  comedy  part ;  two  first-class  old  men. 
This  is  a  very  exceptional  piece  and  can  be  strongly  recommended. 
Price,  25  cents 

MOSE 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  C.  W.  Miles.  Eleven  males,  ten  females. 
Scenery,  two  interiors ;  costumes,  modern.  Plays  an  hour  and  a  half.  A 
lively  college  farce,  full  of  the  true  college  spirit.  Its  cast  is  large,  but 
many  of  the  parts  are  small  and  incidental.  Introduces  a  good  deal  of 
singing,  which  will  serve  to  lengthen  the  performance.  Recommended 
highly  for  co-educational  colleges.  Price,  15  cents 

OUR  WIVES 

A  Farce  in  Three  Acts  by  Anthony  E.  Wills.  Seven  males,  four  fe- 
males. Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  two  interiors.  Plays  two  hours  and 
a  half.  A  bustling,  up-to-date  farce,  full  of  movement  and  action ;  all 
the  parts  good  and  effective  ;  easy  to  produce ;  just  the  thing  for  an  ex- 
perienced amateur  club  and  hard  to  spoil,  even  in  the  hands  of  less 
practical  players.  Free  for  amateur  performance.  Price,  2$  cents 

THE  SISTERHOOD  OF  BRIDGET 

A  Farce  in  Three  Acts  by  Robert  Elwin  Ford.  Seven  males,  six  fe- 
males. Costumes,  modern;  scenery,  easy  interiors.  Plays  two  hours. 
An  easy,  effective  and  very  humorous  piece  turning  upon  the  always  in- 
teresting servant  girl  question.  A  very  unusual  number  of  comedy  parts  ; 
all  the  parts  good.  Easy  to  get  up  and  well  recommended.  Price,  25  cents 


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J I  IN  IS  1994 


YB   14617 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


flL  ^»  Ptiero's; 

f&tice,  50  Centg 


THP  MAfilCTDATP    Farce  in  Three  Acts.    Twelve  males,  four 
1HB  ITlAUIdlKAiC   femaleg    Cogtume8,  modern;  scenery,  all 

interior.    Plays  two  hours  and  a  half. 

THE  NOTORIOUS  MRS.  EBBSMITH  ^"l^Jr^l. 

Costumes,  modern ;  scenery,  all  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 


THP  PRAFIffiATF    Play  in  Four  Acts.  Seven  males,  five  females. 
murMUAll*  interiors,  rather  elaborate -, 


costumes,  modern.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THP  QrHflfll  IWICTDF^    Farce  in  Three  Acts.  Nine  males,  seven 
1111}  3UlUUL,lUU>lItCJ3    famo^t  Costumes, modern;  scenery, 


three  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  SECOND  MRS.  TANQUERAY  S^j 


tumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors-    Piay"  a  full  evening. 

Comedy  in  Three  Acts.    Seven  males,  four 
females    Scene,  a  single  interior;  costumes 
modern.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  TIMES    Comedy  ^  Four  Arts.    Six  males,  seven  femalet 
liii  1  iT  lv  J    Scene,  a  single  interior;  costumes,  modern.    Plays  a 
full  evening. 

THF  WFA1TFR  ^FY    Comedy  in  Three  Acts.    Eight  males,  eight 
UK  WfcAlUA  3ttA    females     costumes,  modern;  scenery,  two 
interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 


A  WIFF  WITHOUT  A  SHIIF  Comedy  ln  Thr««  Acts« 

A  UlrC  nllflVDl   AMUIlri:    males>four  females.    Costumes, 
modem  ;  scene,  a  single  interior.    Plays  a  full  evening. 


Sent  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price  by 

5£altet?  fy-TStibw  &  Company 

No.  5  Hamilton  Place,  Boston,  Massachusetts 


